Somebody to love
by Marcella Polman
Summary: A rewrite of the movie centered on Henry and Ian as a romantic pairing. Yes, that's right. So, slash. List of -mostly redundant- author's notes inside. Complete.
1. Meeting Daphne

**Stuff about the story**

Disclaimer: This fanfiction is inspired by the film What a Girl Wants (and by Arnold-the-female-purple-pyg-my-puff 's story How D'You Do?; see #4 of the author's notes below). Therefore, neither of the main characters, nor circumstances nor most of the secondary characters are mine. I'm just bending and shaping them a little to suit my story, but I promise to return them practically undamaged.

Warning: This is a slashfic about two male characters becoming romantically and sexually involved. If you're averse to this notion then go read some nice het.

Five author's notes that are utterly redundant and one that isn't:

1) Redundancy of the author's notes

All but one of the notes you'll find below are redundant, as I don't belief that I will be able to persuade slash loathers to read my fic, and slash lovers will give me the benefit of the doubt and want to decide for themselves if I've written anything good. I'm writing these notes solely for my own pleasure.

2) Farfetched pairing

The pairing I have chosen is rather farfetched. Not because I've slashed two characters that are canonically very straight; that's nothing new at all, it is done in abundance on the Internet, and sometimes with great sub-textual justification. After all, it isn't a far cry from a movie featuring male character A to be instrumental in having his male friend B getting the girl (Whatever It Takes, for example) to a fanfic in which character A realises that he is actually in love with B. Nor is it a big leap from a movie featuring male character A pretending to be gay allowing him access to the girl who happens to be spoken for (Three To Tango) to a fanfic in which character A realises that he is in fact truly gay and in love with his rival.

Oddly enough, it just occurs to me that nobody seems to have written those fics. But I digress.

WAGW isn't that sort of movie. It has no slash subtext (apart, perhaps, from the odd use of the term 'coming out' which I address in chapter 3 of my fic). Canonically, Ian is firmly smitten with Daphne and Henry is still harbouring feelings for Libby. To pose otherwise would be ridiculously farfetched. And that is precisely the reason why I wrote the fic. I wanted to see if I could turn a ludicrous pairing plausible. And I think I pulled it off. But I am, for obvious reasons, biased of course.

3) Taking liberties

I've taken some liberties with the characters. Yeah, duh. No, I mean, apart from the very obvious, I've provided Ian with a selfish streak. In my universe, he's not averse to using a certain American girl to get what he really wants.

4) How D'You Do?

And now for the only relevant note in this list: my story was inspired by Arnold-the-female-purple-pyg-my-puff 's story How D'You Do?. When I started to think about my fic, I wanted to write it from alternating Ian and Henry's POVs. I wasn't worried about writing Henry; there's ample footage of him in the movie. Ian has far less screen time, though, and I wasn't certain I could write him. Until I stumbled upon How D'You Do? and was shown the way by Arnold. She wrote almost 20,000 words entirely from Ian's POV! Very clever, very cunning, and a very nice story at that, even though I personally prefer slash. So, I was greatly inspired by How D'You Do? and I think it shows, especially in the first chapter.

5) Pace and rating

Despite the story being M-rated, most of its chapters are fairly innocent. I like stories that start slowly and accelerate towards the end. Readers who'd start at chapter 1 but abandon the fic before chapter 5 might even arrive at the conclusion that it isn't a slashfic at all. But it is! I promise. Just bear with me.

6) Title

The title of the story was initially intended to refer to a song from Queen. When I started I thought it would be nice to provide the story with a soundtrack by naming the chapters after songs, preferably from Queen and/or The Strokes. I found however that this was too difficult to do, as it was hard enough to find titles that fitted both POVs in each chapter. I kept the story's title because I liked it, but I'm sorry to say that there is no Queen in this fic. There are queens however. Two, to be precise. Three, if you count Elisabeth.

And now, if you're still there, if you're not exhausted or bored out of your skull by my notes, here's the fic.

**SOMEBODY TO LOVE**

**1. Meeting Daphne **

_Ian_

I was sitting on the reception desk, oblivious to the chaos around me, working on a melody for a song. Which was rather frustrating, because I had been at it for a while and I hadn't even finished the first verse. Whatever I tried, it just didn't sound right.

At some point a girl walked up to me and said, "That sounds really good."

She was American. And she was pretty. The kind of pretty anyone would recognise.

"Thanks," I replied.

She looked at my guitar for a second. "Is that a Gibson J-200?"

"Yeah." This girl knew something about guitars_. _Alwaysa sure way to win me over. "Are you a musician?"

"No," she said, "but I live with one back home."

So she had a boyfriend and was living with him. My mood dropped suddenly.

"My mom," she added.

"Oh!"My envy evaporated almost as quickly as it had appeared, and I slid off the desk and put a sign that read 'reception' on it. "So, you checking in?"

She grinned at me. "Day job?"

"Yeah, one of many. You know, life of a struggling musician."

I left the reception desk to show the girl around.

"So the kitchen's through there," I pointed, "Common room's down the hall. I should warn you the dog and bone's on the blink and we've no lift here."

She looked confused.

"Phone," I continued, "is broken. Elevator: none."

A girl walked out of the toilet and shouted, "Lou's free."

The American frowned. "Who's Lou?"

I grinned. "We better take this slowly."

She grinned back at me, but then got distracted by the television.

A reporter announced that Lord Henry Dashwood was giving up his hereditary seat in the House of Lords to run for election as a commoner.

I happened to harbour a dislike for Lord Dashwood. He was in the papers and on the telly now and again, and I once saw him in the flesh from a distance. He was more handsome and had a more pleasant voice than most, but he was still a Tory, and still one of 'them'. 'Them' being the ones belonging to the nobility. Not my kind of people.

"Why should an accident of birth give me the right to make decisions for the people?"Lord Henry was saying.

Indeed, I thought, amazed at the hypocritical ease with which he stated the obvious.

"My dad," the girl I had just met whispered.

Her words startled me. This American, daughter of one of the oldest and richest families in England?

The reporter resumed,"Lord Dashwood, who will marry his fiancé, Glynnis Payne, in the presence of the queen later this summer will also inherit a stepdaughter, the lovely Clarissa Payne."

Footage showed Dashwood with Ms Payne at his side. She looked happy and rather triumphant, he not so much. The sight of Henry's soon to be stepdaughter added to my gloating. She didn't look sour, she looked pure acid.

"It's this surprising announcement of Lord Dashwood's that has sent shock waves through Westminster,'' the reporter said cheerfully. "He now appears to be an unstoppable political force."

I looked at the girl next to me and assessed that she was in need of some fresh air. I couldn't leave her to her own devices.

"Fancy a walk?" I asked, figuring I wouldn't be missed very much at Great Britain's Grand Hotel (oh, the clever irony of the name!). The still nameless girl nodded.

Outside I said, "I'm Ian Wallace."

"Daphne Reynolds," she returned.

Huh?

I take it my puzzled expression caused her to explain that she had come from New York to look for her father of whom she had a name, a Polaroid and an address but no memory whatsoever, because she had been raised solely by her mother.

Well, well, I thought, noble boy gets common girl pregnant and flees the scene. Haven't we heard that story before?

But here she was, the fruit of his loins so to speak, desperately wanting to meet him. I could feel my heart swell with gloating. Daphne Reynolds could very well prove to be an insuperable barrier to the fulfilment of Henry's ambitions.

She seemed to be having second thoughts, however. I instantly protested, "Daphne, he's your father. You flew halfway around the world to see him. You can't turn back now."

I wasn't convincing.

"He has a family now. You saw them. They're so elegant and sophisticated. What would he want with me?"

What would he, indeed? I thought. I contemplated saying something to the effect of 'What wouldn't he want with you? You're his daughter!' but I figured she wasn't gullible enough to fall for it, so I said flippantly, "Yeah, well, you got a point there."

"Shut up." She smiled slightly. "It's just not as simple as I thought. Maybe I should just go home and let him get on with his life."

She looked up at me, apparently hoping for more advice.

I walked ahead of her. Pressuring her wouldn't do me much good I gathered, but I could let her know without words that I disapproved of where her thoughts were headed.

She caught up with me and we continued to walk in silence. At some point she said, "You're right. I'll see you around," and hopped on a bus.

I had no idea if she had already made a decision, or what it would entail.

_Henry_

The women in my life were already having breakfast when I entered the room.

"Morning," I said. "Everyone sleep well?"

By way of reply Clarissa screamed, "There's someone at the window!"

Those bloody paparazzi again!

I told Percy to call the police. My seat at the House of Lords was still warm and the journalist scum were already prying through the fence in search for gossip. But I wouldn't tolerate this media circus.

Running outside to look for scumbags I soon bumped into a young girl.

"Where do you think you're going?" I hissed.

"To you," she had the nerve to answer.

"How long do you people have to spy before realising there's no story here?"I said angrily.

She claimed I had the wrong idea.

"Tell it to the authorities," I snarled.

I took her inside to wait for the police.

"The real scandal is how young they're starting you guttersnipes now," I lectured her. "You sit down and tell me who sent you. The Sun? The Daily Star?"

She couldn't be more than 17. _"_Now, take your picture and go away."

"I already have a picture of you." She showed it to me. "From Libby."

Glynnis entered the hall, Clarissa and Mother in her wake, demanding to know what was going on. "Libby?" she said, "that singer you met on a camel?"

"She thought I'd want to know what my father looked like," the girl said to me. "My name is Daphne Reynolds. I'm Libby's daughter. According to this... I'm your daughter, too."

She showed me a birth certificate. I was dumbstruck with shock. Glynnis voiced her terror rather loudly. Clarissa stated coldly that I seemed to have had an even better time in Morocco than I'd let on. I muttered that it must all be a mistake and Glynnis couldn't agree more.

The girl in front of me looked defeated. "Maybe I shouldn't have come," she said. "l can tell this is a big shock for you."

She professed that she had known that I was her father her entire life, as it were. She had dreamt about meeting me for just as long, but it was probably a mistake to have come.

"You have known about this your whole life?" I said. "And your mother didn't feel l deserved the same kind of consideration? How could she keep something like this from me?"

Glynnis wasn't pleased with my sudden change of heart. "Excuse me. What happened to the mistake theory we were operating on a moment ago?"

The girl was about to leave when my mother called after her. "No, wait a minute, ducky."She turned to me_. _"Henry, I know this has come as a shock, but we can't just let the girl go. At least not until we've got to the bottom of this."

Percy suggested he call a hotel.

"And tell them what, exactly?" Glynnis said. "That the best-known electoral candidate in a generation is requesting a room for a teenage girl? The press will have a field day."

"Glynnis is absolutely right, dear," my mother said, to my surprise but not Glynnis's.

"Thank god someone else is thinking straight," she said.

After a meaningful pause, my mother spoke. "The girl must stay here, with us."

I knew she didn't like Glynnis very much.

Daphne, on the other hand, she seemed to have taken an instant liking to. I watched the two of them talking outside in the garden while I was lectured by Glynnis.

"Before we let this hypothetical daughter blow your political career out of the water we might consider checking up on her," she said. "I'm trying to think of what's best for you. l know you don't like thinking about it, but the press can be brutal."

"'Exclusive! Henry Dashwood in Love-child Shocker!'"Clarissa exclaimed, in mock imitation of a headline.

It occurred to me (again) that I didn't like her very much. And anyway, Daphne isn't strictly a love child. Libby and I were married in a Bedouin ceremony in Morocco. We even planned to make it official, but when I had introduced her to my parents in London she left before arrangements could be made.

"Glynnis," I said firmly, "the girl has a birth certificate. She has my photograph. She has my eyes, for god's sakes!"

I was vaguely aware of feeling an odd sort of satisfaction when my fiancée didn't reply.


	2. Parenthood and politics

III) The launch of the Orwood twins

_Ian_

My band and I had a gig at the Orwood twins's coming out party. (I'd like to clarify that in noble circles a 'coming out party' is a festive event organised by parents to announce that their daughters are now eligible for male suitors. Without this explanation, I fear many would arrive at premature conclusions concerning the twins' sexual orientation and be utterly confused about the joy with which its revelation was greeted.)

It was our second noble gig, and while I watched the people descending the main stairs of Lord's Orwoods' humble abode, I realised (again) that I was being in league with the enemy. Belonging to the nobility was an accident of birth (Lord Dashwood had said so himself) and being pompous about having fallen victim to it was rather hypocritical of the noble gentlemen and ladies. But without accepting their money I wouldn't have been able to start my career as a professional musician. I was, in a way, just as hypocritical as they were.

I stopped pondering when the arrival of Lord Dashwood and Glynnis and Clarissa Payne was announced. From where I was standing, Clarissa was visibly relishing the journalists' attention and making sure photos were taken from her best angle. I couldn't make out Henry Dashwood's expression but I suspected he'd be nervous about Daphne and I gloated in expectation.

She made her entrance of couple of minutes after her father, accompanied by her grandmother, Lady Dashwood. A kind of hush fell over the room (Daphne was something of a celebrity, after all, even to these people—_especially_ to these people). Everyone looked. Everyone noticed the sort of ugly greenish nightgown Daphne was wearing (I was elated for a second). Everyone was in awe when she took it off to show a beautiful, silky, slim fitted light blue dress (even me; I couldn't help but be impressed).

Daphne was a little put off by reporters taking her pictures, but her father rescued her by taking her hand, telling the journalists this was enough (I gathered this from the way he was curtly nodding at them) and leading her away from the stairs towards the dance floor.

I saw her pointing at Peach and Pear Orwood, the debutantes. They also happened to have a sister named Parsnip, who didn't go out much. (I knew this because Lord Orwood is a very proud and talkative man, willing to volunteer any sort of information, even when the conversation is only meant to discuss the terms of a gig.)

I saw Lord Dashwood point towards the chandelier, probably telling Daphne to avoid Lord Orwood catching her looking at it and fall victim to his endlessly boring story on how Napoleon gave it to Josephine at the Battle of Borodino. (Like I said, Lord Orwood is a _very _proud and talkative man).

I noticed Armistead Stuart approaching Lord Dashwood to request his permission to ask his daughter to dance. I wasn't surprised. She was fresh to these circles. She didn't know the ropes. She'd provide a challenge for him to break and mould her. He relished that.

Permission was granted, but Daphne didn't seem overly delighted, and I was hopeful she would resist Armistead's 'charm'. Broken and moulded she wouldn't be of any use to me, she'd fit in perfectly with Lord Dashwood and the likes of his. (Plus, although she was more of a means than an end, I did like her and I wouldn't want to see her hurt unnecessarily.)

The band started a new song, and at the sound of my voice Daphne withdrew from Stuart's arm and turned to the stage. She said my name and didn't seem able to stop looking at me.

I felt rather victorious. Armistead wasn't to bend and shape her, I was. And I'd make sure she stayed just the way she was.

When the song was finished, I hopped off the stage for a break. When I walked to the terrace with the rest of the band, I saw Lord Dashwood being intercepted by Lord Orwood and bored to death with the Napoleon–Josephine–chandelier story. I found it quite funny.

I also noticed Daphne approach Peach and Pear Orwood, who were sitting all alone, in very apparent misery. Their launch obviously hadn't turned out the way they had dreamt it but without a doubt Daphne was going and try to cheer them up. I silently wished her luck and got outside to have a drink.

_Henry_

While Roger Orwood droned on about his precious chandelier I had ample time to ponder about Daphne. The Royal Dress show had been a disaster. I shouldn't have allowed her to arrive later of course, separate from Glynnis and Clarissa and myself—but what on earth possessed her to appear in casual clothing? And on the catwalk?

I had dreaded taking her to the Orwood's ball, but fortunately Glynnis and Clarissa had offered to help finding her a suitable dress.

They did more than that. Daphne looked staggering this evening. I felt rather proud of my new found daughter.

Looking around I spotted her nowhere. I'd recently seen her talking to the twins but they were sitting alone again, appearing perhaps just a little bit brighter.

Possibly Daphne was outside on the terrace. I had noticed the members of the band retreat there, and my daughter had seemed very interested in the singer. Ian.

Nice boy, it appeared to me. Good voice. I wondered how Daphne knew his name and how they had met.

And what they were doing right now.

In my mind's eye vivid images appeared of my daughter and Ian participating in what I had heard the formidable princess Charlotte mention as 'feverish kissing in the cloakroom' on more than one festive occasion. I didn't like the idea. I hated it, in fact. For a moment, I was surprised by the strength of this feeling. Then I realised, when one had just gained a daughter, one wasn't wont to share her within a fortnight.

I got myself rather worked up I'm afraid, and I contemplated interrupting Roger Orwood's supernaturally boring story to look outside for Daphne, when the band reappeared on stage.

On the other end of the room I heard Daphne yell something about 'cranking up the base'.

And then the band began to play. They were brilliant. Especially Ian. He did an excellent imitation of James Brown. But the song was, of course, highly inappropriate for the occasion.

On top of it, Daphne started to dance in a truly ill-suited manner. I was worried, but after a while I noticed that people seemed to like what was happening. Even Peach and Pear Orwood, even the elderly, even my mother (but that wasn't much of a surprise, really).

My daughter was single-handedly getting the party in full swing. Virtually everybody was dancing at some point. I watched them with mixed emotion.

Roger Orwood's feelings were more distinct. "Damn, what is going on, Dashwood?"he hissed."Is that girl yours?"

I nodded.

"What do you suggest I tell my daughters when they lie awake crying over their ruined ball?"

It appeared to me that he didn't need to worry about that. Peach and Pear were quite enjoying themselves.

There was an instrumental break; a very loud one. Above the noise was a rattling sound. I noticed Orwood looking at the ceiling. The chandelier was shaking rather wildly and after seconds it came crashing down to the floor.

The music stopped instantly, as did the dancing. Everybody looked horrified. Roger Orwood uttered a cry of pain and rushed over to the shatters of his precious chandelier. He dramatically pointed an accusing finger at Daphne and shouted, "You!"

I came to her rescue, pulling her away from the crowd, out of the manor and into the Rolls, Glynnis, Clarissa and Mother following after us.

The paparazzi were calling my name and taking pictures. It vaguely occurred to me that Peach and Pear didn't need to fear their party would go into the books as uneventful. On the contrary, it went out with a bang, so to speak.

In the car, the atmosphere was icy. I contemplated saying something reassuring to Daphne, but considering the subzero temperatures that were radiating from Glynnis and Clarissa it would be null and void, so I decided against it.

When we arrived home, everyone except my mother announced she was tired and wanted to retreat to her room. Mother tried to offer Daphne some comforting cocoa but my daughter declined.

I walked her to her room. Before she went inside I told her that I didn't know anyone who wasn't relieved to see that wretched chandelier go. She gave me a faint smile in return and closed the door behind her.

I felt that, despite my efforts, I wasn't a very good father.


	3. The lauch of the Orwood twins

III) The launch of the Orwood twins

_Ian_

My band and I had a gig at the Orwood twins's coming out party. (I'd like to clarify that in noble circles a 'coming out party' is a festive event organised by parents to announce that their daughters are now eligible for male suitors. Without this explanation, I fear many would arrive at premature conclusions concerning the twins' sexual orientation and be utterly confused about the joy with which its revelation was greeted.)

It was our second noble gig, and while I watched the people descending the main stairs of Lord's Orwoods' humble abode, I realised (again) that I was being in league with the enemy. Belonging to the nobility was an accident of birth (Lord Dashwood had said so himself) and being pompous about having fallen victim to it was rather hypocritical of the noble gentlemen and ladies. But without accepting their money I wouldn't have been able to start my career as a professional musician. I was, in a way, just as hypocritical as they were.

I stopped pondering when the arrival of Lord Dashwood and Glynnis and Clarissa Payne was announced. From where I was standing, Clarissa was visibly relishing the journalists' attention and making sure photos were taken from her best angle. I couldn't make out Henry Dashwood's expression but I suspected he'd be nervous about Daphne and I gloated in expectation.

She made her entrance of couple of minutes after her father, accompanied by her grandmother, Lady Dashwood. A kind of hush fell over the room (Daphne was something of a celebrity, after all, even to these people—_especially_ to these people). Everyone looked. Everyone noticed the sort of ugly greenish nightgown Daphne was wearing (I was elated for a second). Everyone was in awe when she took it off to show a beautiful, silky, slim fitted light blue dress (even me; I couldn't help but be impressed).

Daphne was a little put off by reporters taking her pictures, but her father rescued her by taking her hand, telling the journalists this was enough (I gathered this from the way he was curtly nodding at them) and leading her away from the stairs towards the dance floor.

I saw her pointing at Peach and Pear Orwood, the debutantes. They also happened to have a sister named Parsnip, who didn't go out much. (I knew this because Lord Orwood is a very proud and talkative man, willing to volunteer any sort of information, even when the conversation is only meant to discuss the terms of a gig.)

I saw Lord Dashwood point towards the chandelier, probably telling Daphne to avoid Lord Orwood catching her looking at it and fall victim to his endlessly boring story on how Napoleon gave it to Josephine at the Battle of Borodino. (Like I said, Lord Orwood is a _very _proud and talkative man).

I noticed Armistead Stuart approaching Lord Dashwood to request his permission to ask his daughter to dance. I wasn't surprised. She was fresh to these circles. She didn't know the ropes. She'd provide a challenge for him to break and mould her. He relished that.

Permission was granted, but Daphne didn't seem overly delighted, and I was hopeful she would resist Armistead's 'charm'. Broken and moulded she wouldn't be of any use to me, she'd fit in perfectly with Lord Dashwood and the likes of his. (Plus, although she was more of a means than an end, I did like her and I wouldn't want to see her hurt unnecessarily.)

The band started a new song, and at the sound of my voice Daphne withdrew from Stuart's arm and turned to the stage. She said my name and didn't seem able to stop looking at me.

I felt rather victorious. Armistead wasn't to bend and shape her, I was. And I'd make sure she stayed just the way she was.

When the song was finished, I hopped off the stage for a break. When I walked to the terrace with the rest of the band, I saw Lord Dashwood being intercepted by Lord Orwood and bored to death with the Napoleon–Josephine–chandelier story. I found it quite funny.

I also noticed Daphne approach Peach and Pear Orwood, who were sitting all alone, in very apparent misery. Their launch obviously hadn't turned out the way they had dreamt it but without a doubt Daphne was going and try to cheer them up. I silently wished her luck and got outside to have a drink.

_Henry_

While Roger Orwood droned on about his precious chandelier I had ample time to ponder about Daphne. The Royal Dress show had been a disaster. I shouldn't have allowed her to arrive later of course, separate from Glynnis and Clarissa and myself—but what on earth possessed her to appear in casual clothing? And on the catwalk?

I had dreaded taking her to the Orwood's ball, but fortunately Glynnis and Clarissa had offered to help finding her a suitable dress.

They did more than that. Daphne looked staggering this evening. I felt rather proud of my new found daughter.

Looking around I spotted her nowhere. I'd recently seen her talking to the twins but they were sitting alone again, appearing perhaps just a little bit brighter.

Possibly Daphne was outside on the terrace. I had noticed the members of the band retreat there, and my daughter had seemed very interested in the singer. Ian.

Nice boy, it appeared to me. Good voice. I wondered how Daphne knew his name and how they had met.

And what they were doing right now.

In my mind's eye vivid images appeared of my daughter and Ian participating in what I had heard the formidable princess Charlotte mention as 'feverish kissing in the cloakroom' on more than one festive occasion. I didn't like the idea. I hated it, in fact. For a moment, I was surprised by the strength of this feeling. Then I realised, when one had just gained a daughter, one wasn't wont to share her within a fortnight.

I got myself rather worked up I'm afraid, and I contemplated interrupting Roger Orwood's supernaturally boring story to look outside for Daphne, when the band reappeared on stage.

On the other end of the room I heard Daphne yell something about 'cranking up the base'.

And then the band began to play. They were brilliant. Especially Ian. He did an excellent imitation of James Brown. But the song was, of course, highly inappropriate for the occasion.

On top of it, Daphne started to dance in a truly ill-suited manner. I was worried, but after a while I noticed that people seemed to like what was happening. Even Peach and Pear Orwood, even the elderly, even my mother (but that wasn't much of a surprise, really).

My daughter was single-handedly getting the party in full swing. Virtually everybody was dancing at some point. I watched them with mixed emotion.

Roger Orwood's feelings were more distinct. "Damn, what is going on, Dashwood?"he hissed."Is that girl yours?"

I nodded.

"What do you suggest I tell my daughters when they lie awake crying over their ruined ball?"

It appeared to me that he didn't need to worry about that. Peach and Pear were quite enjoying themselves.

There was an instrumental break; a very loud one. Above the noise was a rattling sound. I noticed Orwood looking at the ceiling. The chandelier was shaking rather wildly and after seconds it came crashing down to the floor.

The music stopped instantly, as did the dancing. Everybody looked horrified. Roger Orwood uttered a cry of pain and rushed over to the shatters of his precious chandelier. He dramatically pointed an accusing finger at Daphne and shouted, "You!"

I came to her rescue, pulling her away from the crowd, out of the manor and into the Rolls, Glynnis, Clarissa and Mother following after us.

The paparazzi were calling my name and taking pictures. It vaguely occurred to me that Peach and Pear didn't need to fear their party would go into the books as uneventful. On the contrary, it went out with a bang, so to speak.

In the car, the atmosphere was icy. I contemplated saying something reassuring to Daphne, but considering the subzero temperatures that were radiating from Glynnis and Clarissa it would be null and void, so I decided against it.

When we arrived home, everyone except my mother announced she was tired and wanted to retreat to her room. Mother tried to offer Daphne some comforting cocoa but my daughter declined.

I walked her to her room. Before she went inside I told her that I didn't know anyone who wasn't relieved to see that wretched chandelier go. She gave me a faint smile in return and closed the door behind her.

I felt that, despite my efforts, I wasn't a very good father.


	4. Rivalry

**4. Rivalry**

_Henry_

At breakfast the next day Glynnis buried me with newspapers.

'Chandelier Shatters at Debutante Disaster', 'Dashwood Deb Shatters Priceless Chandelier', 'Chandelier Shatters Shatter Dashwood Career?' the headlines read. All not very imaginative.

Glynnis was agitated. "It's everywhere, Henry. We have to do something."

I wasn't willing to get upset. If something needed doing, Alistair surely would arrange it. As his daughter, Glynnis should know this better than anybody.

Daphne entered, and Clarissa said something spiteful about hardhats being needed because "You never know when something sharp might fall from the sky."

Percy had an accident with the tea on Clarissa's naturally very expensive shoes and she stormed off in a huff.

Daphne offered her apologies for last night; Glynnis called James Brown's 'Get up offa that thing' a revolting song. Then she interrupted the chat that Daphne and I were having by reminding me of my appointment in Westminster.

I left the room reluctantly. On my way out I bumped into Percy whom I heard saying, "Miss Daphne, Mr. Wallace is here to see you."

She answered, clearly in shock, "Don't let him in, I'm not even cute yet! Oh, what am I going to wear?"

I wondered who Mr. Wallace might be, and I made a mental note to sermon Mr. Russell, the weekend guard, to be more cautious in deciding whom to allow access to the house.

When I opened the front door, I was startled by a shady orange motorbike which was parked on the drive. Behind me I heard coughing. I turned around and saw Daphne's singer from last night sitting on the bench.

He stood, smiling at me. "Hello, sir. Ian Wallace. I'm here to pick up Daphne. "

Ah. Mr Wallace. Ian. Here to pick up my daughter. For what, exactly?

I closed the door and approached him, showing, I believe, superiority.

"How are you doing?" Apparently unfazed, he extended his hand.

I automatically shook it, mumbling, "How do you do?" and not feeling superior at all.

"Good," the boy said brightly.

Who are you? I thought.

"Who are you?" I said.

"I'm a musician," he replied, as though that explained everything. "I was at the ball last night."

"You were in the band," I nodded. "And now you and Daphne are..."

"Eloping together?" he said. "Yeah. l realise it's a bit sudden... but after last night, there really was no turning back."

For a moment, I was dumbstruck by his bluntness. Then I realised he must be joking, and I chastised myself for being so naïf.

He laughed. I pretended to find it funny too.

"Hey!" Daphne suddenly appeared, clearly pleased to see Ian. In one smooth move she took his hand and pulled him towards the door. To me she said cheerfully, "Don't wait up, Henry."

Over his shoulder, Ian flashed me a bright, rather triumphant smile. "See you."

He could just as well have told me 'Gotcha!'

It is fair to say that I was miffed. I ran to the door, but I couldn't (of course) prevent them from riding off, Daphne's arms wound tightly around Ian's waist, her helmet clad head pressed against his shoulder.

It was as though I had lost something and I felt the urge to fight to get it back, to take revenge on the thief. I felt extremely agitated. I even went back into the house before coming out again when I realised I had to hurry to be in time for my appointment. Then I made a forceful attempt to calm down.

They weren't eloping, of course they weren't. It was just a date. Ian Wallace was just taking Daphne out on a date.

I didn't like it. I didn't like it at all. But there was nothing I could do about it; at least not without making a spectacle of myself.

I sighed and gave Stanley orders to take me to Westminster, dreading the appointment.

_Ian_

I felt really triumphant, having Lord Dashwood eat my dust while I rode off with his daughter on the back of my motorbike, her arms held tightly around my waist.

Perhaps I was giddy from relief as well. I'd just met the man. Really met him. We shook hands. We made eye contact. He'd scrutinised me and I'd cringed inside, but then I'd felt daring and I had held his stare. It had appeared rather hot in the entrance hall.

Daphne had been very pleased to see me, and voiced it loudly. She didn't at all give the impression of a girl still depressed by a fatherly tirade about a shattered chandelier the night before. Perhaps Lord Dashwood wasn't as formidable as he let on. Perhaps he was rather a sissy.

I drove Daphne to Spitalfields and watched her while she visited the stalls, squealing from excitement about virtually everything she saw. So very different than her father.

As a sort of gift, I bought her a couple of cheap bracelets that she liked. To me, she was like a rough diamond. Priceless.

At one of the stalls she found some skirts she wanted to try on. While I waited for her, I felt a push against my shoulder.

"I'm terribly sorry," somebody mumbled. When I turned, I looked right into Clive's face.

"Ian," he said. "Hello."

Two feet behind him was Gareth. Blast.

I didn't want Clive back; I really didn't, not anymore. But to see him with the bloke I'd lost him to was... It hurt. Even though it'd been over a year now.

"Are you here with a friend?" Clive asked.

"Yeah. She's over there. Trying on a couple of skirts."

"She?" he echoed. "As in 'girlfriend'?"

I shrugged intending to fuel his confusion, but he turned the tables by drawling, "Did I hurt you that much, Ian? Have you turned straight because every man reminds you of me? I'm so sorry."

What a prick. Gareth seemed to think Clive was voicing sincere sympathy though, and pulled him away from me.

"Come on, honey, let's go."

I watched them walk away, two pricks deserving each other. So why was I feeling like a looser?

Daphne returned, wearing a skirt over her jeans she seemed very enthusiastic about. I flashed her the brightest smile I could muster under the circumstances and got a broad grin in return.

We strolled some more between the stalls. I relaxed again. Daphne thanked me for the bracelets. Then, rather out of the blue, she announced that from now on she was going to behave.

"Behave like what, exactly?"I asked.

"An impeccably brought up young lady,"she replied. Seriously.

I found it rather funny, but she stated she'd chosen me to help.

Why? I wondered. What did she expect?

But I saw no harm in helping her. There wasn't a chance in hell she'd learn how to 'behave'. This rough diamond couldn't be polished, of that I was certain. And besides, coaching Daphne would keep me occupied and distract my mind from Clive and Gareth. A year ago, I lost my lover to a rival. Now, I had the opportunity to satisfy my competitive streak by destroying a lord through his daughter.


	5. Daphne's romantic date

**5. Daphne's romantic date**

_Ian_

We got on my bike and I drove to Regent's Park, where I rented a boat and rowed us to the middle of the lake. There I told Daphne to stand. If she wanted to learn to behave in a manner becoming her breed (or rather her father's) learning how to curtsy was as good a start as any.

I motioned to one of the seats. "Get up."

She did, reluctantly.

"Get your balance."

She tried, her posture being quite tense.

"Okay, that's it. Now gently… slide your foot back."

She did (too fast), and ended up losing her balance and rocking the boat. We both had to sit down and grab the sides to stay on.

Confident that it would get her nowhere, I decided to show her how a curtsy was done.

"Hold this." I handed her the paddle. "You got to think grace, you got to think poise." I paused,

"You got to think… balance." Obviously.

I stood straight. "Observe." I swept her my finest bow.

She was visibly impressed and demanded to know where I had learnt those remarkable skills.

I told her the truth. My mother was a deb. She married beneath her and her parents disowned her, but they took pity on me, their half-breed grandson, and paid for me to go to the right schools and to get me into the right clubs, until one day I realised the hypocrisy of it all. Belonging to the nobility was an accident of birth, and I hated those who pretended it was more than that.

I didn't want to think about that now, though, so I said, "Enough stalling. Get up there, and let me see you perform."

She got up and stood on the seat again.

When she had her balance, I said, "Now…"

She slid her foot back but wobbled and sent us shaking.

I realised we were going to fall, and I went over and grabbed her. I could hardly get her wet and stay dry myself, could I? That just wouldn't be polite.

Daphne seemed to find it quite funny that we got a wetting. She was right I supposed, so I laughed with her. The water wasn't deep and we got back in the boat rather quickly.

She put a hand on my shoulder and lay next to me. Closely. Our faces were only inches apart. The look in her eyes...

Oh, blast. I'd seen that look before. In the mirror. At the start of my relationship with Clive. She wanted to be kissed. To her, being soaking wet in a rowboat close to me apparently qualified as romantic. According to her, we were on a romantic date.

Damn. I hadn't meant for this to happen. I had intended to become Daphne's friend because that could prove to be useful and I had put quite some effort in arranging it, but I didn't want to become her boyfriend.

I did decide to kiss her however, because I thought, in for a penny in for a pound, and I didn't want to spoil my chances of destroying her father's career by alienating her.

The kiss was... rather like my first kiss. I got it from a girl at thirteen, a quite eager one. I didn't like it and decided kissing was highly overrated and really not my thing. Until, at seventeen, I got kissed by Rob Travers. It turned my world upside down.

My thing with him lasted three days. Three days in which we did other things besides kissing. Things that sent me reeling and had me have difficulty sitting for about a week. After three days Rob said, "So now you know. It's time for you to find a nice boyfriend. Good luck." I hated him for a long time for it.

Thinking about Rob allowed me to prolong the kiss a little, instead of turning away in disgust. It occurred to me that love (or lust) and hatred seemed often so closely related.

I had hated Rob Travers. I still hated Clive. I hated Henry Dashw—

I pulled away from Daphne like I was stung. She looked puzzled, disappointed. I concealed my distress by telling her that it was getting late. I picked up the paddle that had been lying discarded on the bottom of the boat and said, "I'll take you back."

Her arms were wound around my waist and her head was resting on my shoulder when I rode her home. It felt like a millstone but it weighed far less than the notion that the agitation I experienced whenever I came across Henry Dashwood's name or image was caused by something entirely different than dislike.

_Henry_

While my daughter was out on a date with the singer of a band, I let Alistair do the honours in Westminster (he was good at that, anyway) and I was back in time for lunch. Daphne wasn't there yet.

After lunch I tried to concentrate on reading the papers and on doing some work, but it was to no avail.

I decided to call Libby.

"Five hours ago your daughter rode off on the back of a motorcycle and hasn't been heard from since," I barked into the telephone.

"Are we talking about a date?"Libby said slowly, as though it was quite funny.

"l don't know!" I yelled. _"_But I dread to think! The boy's in some sort of band!"

"Well," she said, _"_as I recall, I spent a great deal of time on the back of your motorbike."_  
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I muttered that that was rather different. Libby said something about worrying coming easily and about Daphne being quite able to take care of herself.

"She deserves some trust, Henry."

Perhaps she did. She probably did. But after I put the phone down I started pacing and was only stopped by my mother's knocking on the door.

She entered and spoke to me for a while, but I only heard bits of what she said. Wasn't I making too much fuss about it? Didn't I trust Daphne?

"Are you really worried that something might happen to her, or are you rather afraid she's having a good time?"

At that she left, as an obvious hint to me to do some serious pondering.

First, I felt insulted. Of course I was truly worried something might happen to my daughter! Of course I didn't begrudge her a good time!

Then I realised that I did. I didn't like the thought of Daphne having fun without me. The question was, why?

I sat down, forcing myself to face the possibility that I was harbouring some sort of incestuous desire for my daughter.

I tended to think that I wasn't, and was left to conclude that my agitation resided in envy.

Daphne was out on a date with a boy she appeared to be in love with. And it was apparently mutual.

She was out on a romantic date.

Yes. That stung. It was a long time ago since I had a romantic date myself, or several of them. With Libby.

We had had sex. The first time was my first time ever. It was awkward. I was clumsy. Libby was forgiving, a good teacher, nice. I was grateful and, I believe, a fast learner.

But I didn't have trysts like that anymore. I had Glynnis now.

My relationship with her was largely arranged by Alistair and the sex was obligatory. To both parties I suspected.

I sighed as I realised that my life contained an overkill of obligations and hardly any fun.

Daphne however, did have a good time. With Ian Wallace. Who rode a motorcycle and sang in a band. And whose dark eyes didn't waver, even under the most unrelenting stare.

I had the nagging feeling that I wouldn't be this miserable if it wasn't for Ian Wallace.

Outside my window, I heard the sound of a motorcycle nearing. Ian was bringing Daphne home. I stood and watched.

Her arms were wound tightly around his waist and her head was resting against his shoulder. She stayed in that position for a couple of seconds after the bike had stopped. Then she got off and took off her helmet. He kept his head protector on and I saw her smile falter. I was quite surprised by his conduct myself, until I realised that perhaps he'd seen me watching them and wanted to be prudent. Then I reconsidered this notion again. After all, he hadn't seemed the prudent kind this morning.

Daphne walked towards the front door. There she turned and waved. Ian waved back shortly, curtly even, and drove off leaving me (and probably Daphne as well) quite puzzled.


	6. The Henley regatta

**6. The Henley regatta**

_Henry_

I saw Ian again at the Henley regatta. Much to my surprise he appeared to be a valet there.

When I got out of the car he came up to me and extended his hand, as forward and outgoing as he had been the morning he 'eloped' with my daughter.

"Hello, sir."

While we shook hands, I wondered how many jobs he held and I said, "I had no idea you were so versatile."

I would have liked to wait for his response but Alistair ushered me on. "Henry, come along, lots to do."

Glynnis followed us but Daphne stayed behind to talk to Ian, I noticed looking over my shoulder. She seemed just as surprised as I to see him here.

She smiled at him. He seemed pleased to see her too. At some point they leant in. It was obvious they were about to kiss each other, but Armistead Stuart came up and prevented this from happening by telling Daphne the press wanted to meet her (or so I gathered from his gestures).

I'm not very fond of Armistead, but I can't deny that I was feeling a peculiar gratitude towards him for causing my daughter to join me with the paparazzi and having her _not_ kiss Ian Wallace.

After Daphne and I spoke to the press, declining the invitation to go into length about the chandelier incident, I sat down at a table with Glynnis and Alistair. I would rather have walked around with my daughter explaining the Henley tradition to her, but Alistair insisted I stay put and be 'seen' by the people gathered.

I watched Daphne explore the scene by herself. She was walking down a pier, turning her back towards the water, pointing her binoculars in the direction of the drive, probably to spot Ian.

I saw Armistead Stuart approaching her. They talked. It seemed to me that he was purring to her (if this is a verb that can be used to describe the behaviour of humans as well as cats). At first, she didn't like it, but then as he leant in she did as well. I was shocked but I registered that it wasn't to the same extent as fifteen minutes ago, when it had been Ian instead of Stuart.

This time too, the kiss was prevented from happening. By Daphne herself. With one great push, she shoved Armistead off the dock and into the water.

I... wasn't as appalled as I should have been. But people started to notice what had happened, paparazzi included, and Alistair hissed, "Henry, do something."

I rushed to the pier, grabbed Daphne's arm and pulled her with me, away from the water. Reporters came after us and we started to run.

I don't think I consciously thought of Ian's motorcycle as a means to escape. I just found myself on the drive, yelling at him to throw me his keys. Which he did.

We got on, Daphne and me. The moment I set the machine in motion the stress subsided. I'd forgotten how much I loved driving a motorcycle, but I suddenly felt on top of the world. And there was an undeniable hint of glee at the sight of paparazzi diving out our way.

_Ian_

After our kissing incident I didn't see Daphne for a while, and I was left with time to thoroughly explore my feelings for her father. Which I did by masturbating while thinking about him. Which proved to be very, _very_ effective. And extremely addictive.

I saw him again at the Henley regatta, where I acted as a valet.

He was getting out of a Rolls and my heart skipped a beat. Part of me wanted to duck and pretend I hadn't seen him (probably the wisest part) another just wanted to give in to the magnetism that was radiating from him.

The latter part was stronger and it even managed a cheery, "Hello, sir."

He shook my hand. "Ian. I had no idea you were so... versatile."

I couldn't see his eyes as he was wearing sunglasses, but the sound of his voice alone made my mouth dry.

While he was ushered on by a man with a rather unpleasant face, Lord Dashwood gave me a small smirk. God. Did it mean anything?

I had no time to think about it, because Daphne was coming out of the car. Despite my rude behaviour when we last said goodbye she looked pleasantly surprised to see me.

"Hey! What are you doing here?"

"Well, you know, just another one of my glamorous jobs."

There was no need to be rude to her now. I had come to peace with what had happened (well, I hadn't, but that wasn't her fault). I looked her over. "You look beautiful."

"Thanks," she said. "I have to look my best. And be on my best will be waiting to see what crazy thing I'll do next." She nodded brightly at my coloured vest, smiling mischievously. "Like kissing a guy who parks cars."

Slowly, I leaned in. I felt obliged to kiss her (again). If I didn't do it, she'd be hurt and I didn't want that.

Strangely enough, I was saved by Armistead Stuart.

"Uh, Daphne," he said, "the press want a photo of you and your father."

Clearly disappointed, she left the drive.

"Stay away from her, peasant. She's out of your league,"Armistead told me.

I suppressed a giggle about his misguided envy and settled for anger, which was safer I reckoned. Giggling would be odd.

Odd... queer, they were dangerously close related. Stuart knew about my being a half-breed (we shared classrooms for several years) but he didn't know about the other thing and I had no intention of enlightening him. If he'd know, I would never hear the end of it.

"What's the matter, Armi?" I snarled." I thought our competition ended in lower school."

On second thought, giggling might have given Stuart the idea that I felt confident of having the upper hand where Daphne was concerned. Just as I had had the upper hand in virtually every competitive game we played in school.

"Are you afraid she might prefer musicians to Cambridge boys?"I said with disdain.

"No," he replied, matching my contempt. "Breeding always wins out in the end."

Then he walked away, his words reminding me of the hopelessness of my situation regarding Henry Dashwood.

He was way beyond my league. He was a full-breed lord aspiring to a political career. He could very well be our next prime minister. Later this summer, he would marry a woman named Glynnis Payne. He was about twenty years my senior. The notion that he would be willing to throw away his career and fiancée and walk into sunset with a mongrel who could have been his son was an absolutely ridiculous one. I shrugged it off and took to work.

At some point, not very long after my heart had skipped a beat at the sight of the man who had satisfied me abundantly without knowing it he came running towards me, his daughter in tow.

"Give me the keys to your bike!" he yelled, "Keys to your bike. Keys to your bike, quick!"

I threw him the keys. I would have done anything he said.

"What's going on?" I asked, but he didn't hear me or pretended not to.

He got on and rode off, Daphne at the back. I marvelled at the sight of Henry Dashwood, riding _my_ motorbike.

He sure knew how to ride. The engine roared, the tires shrieked, the bike jumped off the stairs and reporters dived out of the way. It was sexy as hell.

Later I learnt that Daphne had pushed Armistead Stuart into the water. Once again, she had done something smart... uh... stupid.


	7. Because of a motorcycle

**7. Because of a motorcycle**

_Ian_

The image of Henry Dashwood riding my motorbike kept me company and made an otherwise tedious, tiresome and boring day rather pleasant.

At the end of it I got a ride home from Alex; my friend, member of my band and occasional co-worker on daytime jobs.

He also had a bike. It wasn't as good (or as orange) as mine, but it worked okay. Sitting in pillion with my arms around his waist I tried not to pretend that Alex was Henry but failed miserably. I don't think he noticed. If he did, he didn't mind. Alex is straight, he knows I'm not, and he's fine with it.

Home, I greeted Mrs. Green, my landlady, and went to my room. It was quite small, but I urgently needed a place to live after Clive had kicked me out of the house in which I had lived for nearly four years, and I couldn't afford a larger room.

I was fetching a drink from the fridge, wondering where my bike (or rather, Henry Dashwood) would be right now when the bell rang. A couple of seconds later Mrs. Green hollered my name.

I got downstairs and saw Daphne standing in the hallway.

"We've come to return your bike," she said with a bright smile. "Henry's outside. He can't seem to get away from it. I think he's fallen in love."

I felt my face turning beet red. "Your father is here?"

He was. Still sitting on my bike. He had put away his sunglasses and was looking a little... caught, perhaps?

"Ian." He cleared his throat. "Marvellous motorcycle. Thank you for allowing us to borrow it today."

"We had great fun," Daphne cut in. "I told him to go to Spitalfields. He had no idea how to get there, but we rode around, asked a couple of times and managed to arrive."

I heard her talk but I didn't see her, for I couldn't keep my eyes off Henry. I did remember to look at my shoes occasionally, in order not to be too obvious or appear to be rude.

"I bought some summer dresses," Daphne was saying. "And Henry got a tattoo. Have a look."

I walked over to him. He pulled up his sleeve a little. It was a black, circularly braided pattern, about two inches in diameter. I touched it.

Yes. I touched it. What was I thinking?

Well, I was thinking that I didn't like it on his wrist, which was perfect and didn't need decoration.

At the feeling of his warm skin I pulled my finger back as though I was stung. When I looked up, I saw that he was staring at me.

"It's henna," he said hoarsely.

Only when Mrs. Green came outside I was able to avert my eyes.

"Oh, my god!" My landlady was clearly in awe for Lord Dashwood, even though I was fairly certain she voted Labour.

After a rather awkward moment, Daphne announced that she wanted to see my room and Henry insisted he come along. I found it a terribly embarrassing suggestion.

Nevertheless we climbed the stairs, me at the front, Daphne in the middle and Henry at the end in the queue.

The first thing Daphne noticed when I opened the door was my Strokes poster.

"The Strokes!" she screamed, excited. "They're my favourite band."

They are my favourite band as well and I had tickets for their upcoming concert. Two of them, to be precise. I got them from my parents for my birthday. 'To go with a friend.' They must have been pinching and scraping to get them but, as my father put it, "You only turn twenty-three once in your life."

I was contemplating asking Alex to come with me, but hadn't invited him yet. He liked The Strokes almost as much as I, but so did the others. There was no reason why I would choose one band member over the rest.

I don't know the exact cause of the decision I made. Perhaps it was that Daphne Reynolds was a really nice girl. Perhaps I was feeling guilty for leading her on. Perhaps it was that whom I really wanted to invite to the concert was her father, and she was as close as I could get to him.

Anyway, I said, "I've got two tickets for their concert in three weeks at Alexandra Palace. Would you like to come with me?"

Daphne sort of shrieked. It had to be taken as a yes, obviously.

"Well, that's settled then," I said by way of platitude.

Henry announced that it was time they went home. He called the manor on his mobile phone and gave orders to tell the driver to fetch him and his daughter at the given address.

When we got downstairs, Mrs Green had just made 'a nice cup of tea'.

The four of us drank it in her living room. It was extremely awkward. My landlady chatted with Lord Dashwood about politics. Wasn't it a shame this? And didn't he agree that?

Henry just hummed and nodded.

Daphne assured Mrs Green several times that "the tea was really nice".

When the driver came to collect them I didn't feel an ounce of regret to see them leave.

_Henry_

After we escaped from the paparazzi, my daughter took me to Spitalfields in order to 'shop'. It was a long time since I'd been there.

I found an old record from Cuckoo Owl, Daphne bought some very colourful dresses and she insisted I get a henna tattoo. It startled me a little how much I enjoyed being free from responsibilities for once.

When we rode home, the street in front of the manor was crowded with reporters, so I floored the bike and allowed us to escape a second time.

At some point Daphne decided we return the motorcycle to Ian. I regretted this a little but she was, of course, absolutely right.

As Daphne didn't know where Ian lived we first rode to Great Britain's Grand Hotel. I had to buy a map to get there (employing a chauffeur does have certain drawbacks).

Great Britain's Grand Hotel was a shockingly shady place.

"Good afternoon," I said to the young man sitting at what appeared to be the reception desk.

"Hey," he replied dully. Then, looking at my daughter, he seemed to awake. "You're that girl from the papers. Daphne. Cool!"

From his glare towards me I gathered that he didn't think I deserved the same qualification.

"We borrowed Ian Wallace's motorcycle today," I said. "We'd like to return it, but we haven't got his address."

Fortunately, the receptionist had it and he was willing to give it to us. To Daphne, that is.

The address was in a rather dodgy neighbourhood. When Daphne rang the bell, the door was opened by a woman in her late fifties; a little old to be Ian's mother, a little young to be his grandmother.

Daphne was invited in, the door closed. I was still sitting on the motorcycle, finding it difficult to part from it.

After a couple of minutes Daphne came outside again, with Ian. I felt a little awkward under his stare. Perhaps he didn't like me sitting on his bike. Perhaps he found me unnecessarily possessive over it.

"Marvellous motorcycle," I said. "Thank you for allowing us to borrow it today." I still couldn't bring myself to get off it.

Daphne was telling him about our day while Ian kept staring at me. I found myself staring back, I just couldn't help it, and I was wondering whether this was how a deer in headlights must feel.

"I bought some summer dresses," Daphne was saying. "And Henry got a tattoo. Have a look."

He approached me and I automatically pulled up my sleeve. He touched the pattern on my wrist and I sat petrified.

He frowned and took his finger away.

"It's henna," I said stupidly, as though I owed him an explanation.

The woman who had opened the door for Daphne came outside, apparently curious.

"Oh, my god. Lord Dashwood!"

I prayed she wouldn't hurry inside to notify the press.

Daphne ended an awkward moment by announcing that she would like to see Ian's room.

I insisted to come along. I didn't feel like staying behind and having an obligatory chat with the woman who seemed so excited to meet me in the flesh. And, as I registered once again, I was rather opposed to the idea of leaving Daphne and Ian unchaperoned.

Ian's room was upstairs and it was painfully small, but Daphne instantly spotted a poster from The Strokes on the wall and couldn't have been more excited, as they were her favourite band.

The men on the poster reminded me a great deal of The Beatles.

"I've got two tickets for their concert in three weeks at Alexandra Palace," Ian said to Daphne. "Would you like to come with me?"

Of course she did, and I could hardly tell her she wasn't allowed to go. I wasn't that kind of dad. She wasn't that sort of girl.

To distract myself from my unease I announced that it was high time for Daphne and me to go home. I called the manor and gave orders to tell Stanley to collect us.

When we got downstairs, the owner of the house announced that she had just made 'a nice cup of tea'.

"Thanks, Mrs Green," Ian said. So she wasn't his mother or his grandmother but rather his landlady.

The four of us drank the tea in her living room. The situation was very awkward. I didn't know what to say to Mrs Green who seemed to want to hear my considered opinion about politics. I just hummed and nodded at anything she said.

The sight of Ian and Daphne sitting very closely together was distracting. Daphne's repeatedly assuring Mrs Green that the tea was really nice made me nervous.

I felt quite relieved when Stanley came to drive us home.

As we arrived at the manor some diehard reporters were still standing guard at the gate. I ordered Stanley to drive around to the back of the house. There, Daphne and I sneaked inside.

Apart from the awkward ending of our visit with Ian, my afternoon with Daphne had been wonderful.

I was feeling good, loose. It was truly amazing what a ride on a borrowed motorbike and a visit to Spitalfields could do to a man.

I felt like trying on my old leather jeans. Although they were very tight, they still fitted. I also put in an old earring. (I had my left earlobe pierced in Morocco most of two decades ago.) I found that I looked great in the mirror. My reflection had me playing a few bars of air guitar.

I was caught by Glynnis, who wasn't pleased. I felt strangely unaffected by her shock, and when she left I still felt I deserved to be qualified as cool right now. Subzero even.


	8. An impeccably broad up young lady

**8. An impeccably broad up young lady**

_Henry_

The Henley incident and Daphne and my subsequent motorbike escape came at a cost. I dropped 15 points in the polls on Monday. A reporter asked me, "Lord Dashwood, if you can't handle your own child, how can you handle the government?" My secretary told me that my first two clients hadn't showed up that morning, and that the Children's Education Centre had cancelled my speech.

Alistair was not amused. And he was right, of course. My political career was at stake. Things had to change.

I talked to Daphne. I took her to the family portrait gallery and showed her that being a Dashwood came at a cost. Brigadier Sir Roderick Dashwood lost an eye at the battle of the Boyne. Field Marshal Bingley Dashwood lost his arm at the Battle of the Nile. Uncle Alfred never spoke about what he lost, but one rarely found him sitting.

Part of the burden of being a member of this family was that there were certain codes of behaviour that one was expected to observe.

"I've very much enjoyed our time together," I said to Daphne. "It's just that these are very difficult circumstances... and you, as my daughter, have to..."

"l have to change," she said.

And that she did.

She bought an entirely new wardrobe and appeared to know exactly what to pick out. She didn't laugh out loud anymore, or smile too broadly.

She shone at Ascot, met prominent figures, attended the Chelsea charity auction, and was labelled lovely by many. People told me that my daughter had come a long way and that I must be very proud of her, which I was of course. In the meantime I was rising and, shortly after, racing in the polls.

I deemed it time to present my daughter to society and make arrangements for her coming out party. I gave orders to send invitations and had Percy discuss the catering with the kitchen staff. After some hesitation (as for some strange reason which I couldn't grasp I felt nervous about it) I called Ian. We needed a band, after all.

"Great Britain's Grand Hotel, this is Ian speaking."

I startled a little at hearing his voice so promptly, even though it _had_ been my intention to talk to him.

"Hello. Ian. This is Henry Dashwood," I said stupidly. When he didn't respond, I continued, "I'm... I'm arranging Daphne's coming out party and... and we're in need of a band. Would you... be willing to do the honours?"

An awkward silence fell, which I didn't understand and which made me very nervous for some reason. Finally he said, "Yeah. Sure."

I managed to string together a sentence coherent enough to invite him to come to the manor the next day and discuss the details, which he accepted. I couldn't grasp his apparent lack of enthusiasm however, and it bothered me to no end.

When he arrived we agreed upon a price and I showed him the ballroom. I found him listless though, and I felt the urge to ask him what was wrong but I suppressed it. It wasn't my business. And I was too awkward with inquiring after another man's emotions anyway.

Instead, I told him he was free to decide for himself what songs his band would play. "But preferably no James Brown," I said.

He didn't even smile.

We were back in my study making up a contract when Daphne entered.

"Hey," she said surprised.

Ian looked at her pink jacket and dress set. It seemed to displease him.

I told Daphne that I had asked Ian's band to perform on her coming out party.

"How's the dress fitting going?" I inquired.

"Very well, thank you. Grandma gave me the tiara she wore at her own coming out party."

"How wonderful," I replied.

She nodded slowly, then looked askance at Ian and requested to talk to him for a second outside my room.

Sitting behind my desk I ruffled some papers but it didn't stop me from wondering: if everything was going so splendidly with Daphne, then why did I have this feeling of impending doom?

_Ian_

One week after I showed my humiliating closet of a room to Henry—after seven days of fantasising, of not being able to get the pattern of his henna tattoo from my retina, of wallowing in the notion that _his_ buttocks had been where _mine_ were when I was sitting on my motorbike—I was back to hating Lord Dashwood again. With a vengeance.

I'd seen the incident with Armistead, and Daphne and Henry's subsequent escape on my bike enlarged on in the papers. I'd noticed Henry dropped 15 points in the polls, and I had been pleased.

Not being able to fulfil his political ambitions brought him down to my league somehow. Not that I really thought it would render him attainable to me; I knew he wouldn't suddenly turn queer or fall for someone belonging to an entirely different generation, but still.

Then I read an article about Ascot. 'Dashwood Daughter Shines' the headline said. There was a picture of Daphne in a white dress, wearing a hat. Apparently she had met some prominent people and they'd instantly been smitten with her. On the next page there was a smaller article stating that Lord Dashwood was rising in the polls.

He was forcing her to change, and if she did change I would lose her friendship and my connection to him.

I truly hated his ruthless ambition.

More pictures appeared of Daphne attending important upper class social events, always impeccably clad, wearing a hat and looking unhappy. How could he do this? What a prick!

And yet, I couldn't stop reminiscing about the time we first met in the hallway of his manor, or about his escape on my motorbike, or his returning my bike.

Two weeks after he'd visited me, he called.

"Hello. Ian. This is Henry Dashwood."

I loathed my physical reaction to the sound of his voice.

"I'm arranging Daphne's coming out party and we're in need of a band."

He had the nerve to offer me a gig!

"Yeah. Sure," I said. I could hardly tell him that I didn't want to do it because I hated him.

I went to the manor the next day to discuss the details and agreed on anything he suggested, but I didn't hide my hostility. He was taken aback by it, I noticed with some glee.

When he tried to make a joke about James Brown to lighten the atmosphere, I didn't smile. It was a bad joke anyway.

At some point Daphne entered Henry's room, wearing a pink dress with matching jacket. I hated to see her like that.

Henry inquired after some dress fitting and Daphne mentioned a tiara her grandmother gave her, like it was all completely normal.

Then she said she wanted to talk to me in private for a moment.

Outside Henry's room, she told me she couldn't go to The Strokes concert.

"Daphne, it's next Friday!" I said.

"l can't go," she repeated. "We're going to the Queen's garden party. I'm sorry."

Just like that. I was fairly certain that the Daphne I knew before would have had no difficulty blowing off the Queen because The Strokes and I mattered more. Henry the Bastard must have truly brainwashed her.

"Cool," I snarled. "Just call me when Daphne re-inhabits your body." I knew I was being unfair even while I was saying it. This wasn't Daphne's fault, it was her father's.

I was pissed. Very, very pissed. Riding home way too fast I could almost taste the bile of hatred that I felt for Henry Dashwood.


	9. The event of the summer

**9. The event of the summer**

_Ian_

I dreaded the night of Daphne's coming out ball but the band seemed rather looking forward to what could easily be the event of the summer.

We worked hard, practicing to get everything right and to be able to play requests, because this gig was our chance to redeem ourselves after the small disaster at the Orwood's.

When we arrived at the manor and set up we had ample time to wait, as we had specific instructions not to begin playing until Daphne arrived. (It was the only instruction Henry had given us).

And arrive she did.

When the doors at the top of the grand staircase opened, everyone looked up, and every pair of eyes in the room followed her descent. She looked stunning and extremely composed.

At the foot of the stairs she stood for a moment, allowing the gathered press to take pictures. Henry met her, more pictures were taken, and the band struck up the first few bars of Frank Sinatra's, 'The way you look tonight._'_

We had agreed on this, as it was an appropriate song to voice the feelings of a father being proud of his daughter on the night of her coming out. I bit back my disgust about Henry's hypocrisy—if he truly loved her, he wouldn't be doing this to Daphne—and I sang in a tender tone, the way the song was meant to be sung. I was a pro, after all.

When the song ended, Daphne came up to me. "Can we talk for a sec?"

That, to me, didn't seem such a good idea.

"Ian..." she said pleadingly.

"I don't want to hear about it, Daph," I replied. "What happened to the old you? The real you?"

I turned away from her towards the band. "Okay lads, let's pick up the tempo. 'Stayin' alive'."

From my fellows' expressions I could see that this was unexpected. But Daphne had told me she hated the Bee Gees. She particularly detested Barry's falsetto (and although in my opinion taste wasn't the perfect tool to recognise craftsmanship I could relate to that; I prefer men with dark voices too). I just felt like irritating her, and besides, the older generations would probably love the song.

My choice was met with mixed emotions from the public, I could tell. I didn't have time to ponder this however, because when the song finished Henry was leading Glynnis onto the dance floor.

I contemplated striking up 'Get up offa that thing' just to annoy Lord Dashwood but decided against it, as it probably would destroy my band's already feeble reputation beyond repair.

Instead I instructed the boys to play 'Every breath you take' from The Police. They frowned, they looked puzzled, but they didn't refuse. The music was mellow enough for a slow dance, and nobody would pay close attention to the lyrics.

So I watched Henry; every breath, every move, every step. And my poor heart ached.

It shouldn't hurt so much to hate somebody. And I did hate him; his playing a game with Daphne by making her change, his acting dumb about it, his being out of my _reach_.

I felt as though he had broken a vow by no longer stooping to my level. I thought he should realise that he belonged to me; even though I knew full well that he wasn't—and never would be—mine.

I startled a little when after the last 'I'll be watching you' a man who was part of Lord Dashwood's staff (I'd seen him before at the Henley regatta) approached me with a request.

As pleasantly as I could muster I announced, "And now, the traditional father-daughter dance. Lord Dashwood?"

The band struck up Louis Armstrong's 'What a wonderful world', and I began to sing. On the dance floor Henry seemed to hesitate for a moment. Then he started to dance with a girl I recognised as Clarissa Payne and I was dumbstruck (but I kept singing). Daphne was nowhere to be seen. What had happened to her?

_Henry_

While dancing with Glynnis, I puzzled over the course of the evening and Ian's choice of music for the event. Sinatra's 'The way you look' had been quite apt. I was a proud father, stunned by the beauty of his daughter.

But I was a nervous father as well. Daphne did great when she descended the stairs. She had been doing great the last couple of weeks. So composed, so restrained, so effortless. It still unnerved me to see that my new found daughter had made such a major change almost overnight.

When the song ended a short conversation between Daphne and Ian ensued. I couldn't hear them, but Ian's body language was clearly disapproving and Daphne was looking dejected.

The band struck up a new song. I only realised it was 'Stayin' alive'when Ian began to sing in a perfect falsetto. I was amazed by his versatility. He was able to imitate James Brown's powerful sound just as easily as Barry Gibb's falsetto.

I was also surprised by the choice of song. Daphne told me she didn't like the Bee Gees and I assumed she had confided in Ian about her aversion as well. They really must have fallen out somehow. I startled a little when I realised that my emotions about this were mixed. I didn't want to see my daughter hurt, of course I didn't. But ever since I'd met Ian I'd experienced a distinct dislike at the thought of him and Daphne getting close.

Right this moment I was dancing to 'Every breath you take' from the Police. The music was suitable for a slow dance, but I hoped that none of our guests would pay attention to the lyrics. They were quite depressing and I didn't believe that Ian could have missed that. He was singing this song on purpose.

At first I was wont to think that Daphne must have hurt him, but then I noticed that he was staring at _me_. Continuously. Sting's words seemed to hold a message for me, but I had no idea which, or why.

I was truly relieved when the song ended. Alistair approached the stage, and a few seconds later Ian announced, "And now, the traditional father-daughter dance. Lord Dashwood?"

The band began to play Louis Armstrong's 'What a wonderful world' and I looked around the dance floor, but Daphne was nowhere to be seen.

"Has Daphne gone missing again?" Glynnis asked. "Maybe Clarissa can step in. I'm sure she wouldn't mind. Would you, darling?"

"No, of course not," Clarissa said brightly. "I'm almost your daughter now, too."

I gave in to the pressure, but while I was dancing with my soon to be stepdaughter I worried about my real daughter, feeling that, vibrant as she had been before, her composure and restraint must have come at a cost no matter how effortless their display might have looked.

The song stopped mid-sentence. When I looked around to see what might have caused this, I saw Daphne standing next to my mother, staring at Clarissa and me. She looked extremely disappointed and I felt immensely guilty.

She came up to me.

"Daphne," I said apologetically, but she didn't seem to hear me.

I watched her take off my mother's tiara and give it to Clarissa.

"You don't deserve it,"she said darkly, "But I don't want it." Then she turned to me and added, "Any of it."

She rushed out of the room, and after a moment of indecision I went after her.

"Daphne. Daphne. Wait."

She turned on the stairs. "No," she said. "I'm done waiting, Henry. When I was little, every birthday I'd get all dressed up, and I'd wish that if I was good enough you'd come and find me. And now here I am, in the most beautiful dress I could ever imagine, and you're here. But you know what I miss now? l miss being me. l finally realise that that is enough."

I didn't fully understand what she meant, but I did grasp that she didn't want _this _anymore; this being the upper class young lady I had forced her to become.

"Maybe we're just trying to make something work here which isn't..."

I wanted to tell her that I understood, but right that moment the arrival of Her Majesty the Queen was announced.

"Go ahead," my daughter told me. "Duty calls."

I hated to see her leave the party but I had to meet the queen, so I returned to the ballroom to greet her majesty.

"And where is your enchanting daughter?" she asked when courtesies were exchanged.

I had dreaded this question, and a suitable response hadn't come up yet. The Queen had accepted the invitation to what many considered the event of the summer, and now my daughter wasn't even there. I didn't know what to say and I looked around to see if perhaps my mother could help out, but I couldn't find her.

Fortunately princess Charlotte, formidable in more than one way, approached her majesty and said, "Hello, Elisabeth. There's some exquisite caviar over there. I'll arrange for you to taste it."

I was nevertheless quite relieved that the queen only stayed for a very short while and grateful that she left without again having expressed the desire to greet my daughter.

I danced through the night (which sounds considerably more pleasant than it was).

I danced with Glynnis several times and I realised that even though she would be my wife in a couple of weeks, I didn't really _like_ her.

I worried about Daphne, who had retreated to her room, angry and disappointed with me. I failed her miserably and I had no idea how to make amends.

And I dreaded the headlines of tomorrow's newspapers, in all their variations of 'Debutante Ditches Daddy.'


	10. Maternal wisdom

**10. Maternal wisdom**

_Henry_

Adding to my misery were the songs Ian chose to sing occasionally. They were... quite strange to put it mildly, and they caused me to meet each new song with anticipation, even though most of them were quite appropriate.

I startled when the band struck up 'One way or another'. From _Blondie._ Ian might very well not even have been born when it first came out, but he sang, 'I'm gonna getcha, getcha' with the same aggressive conviction Debbie Harry had. And he stared at me while singing.

After I finished dancing with princess Charlotte to Nat King Cole's 'Unforgettable', also impeccably done by Ian who to my relief had stopped his continuous staring at me and seemed to ease off a little, the band began to play 'I want you to want me' and the glaring recommenced. I truly didn't understand.

I escorted princess Charlotte to her seat on the first notes of 'Love hurts' from Nazareth. The lyrics held a general accusation against love and were perhaps not personal, but Ian's staring left no mistake as to the meaning of his singing, which was very personal indeed.

During the song my mother miraculously turned up again, signalling she wanted to speak with me.

It was a relief to dance with her and to be distracted from Ian. It was also enlightening.

My mother informed me that she had seen Clarissa urge away Daphne from the dance floor and shortly talk to Alistair just before her grandfather approached the stage to request a father-daughter dance. My mother went in search for Daphne and found her locked up in the dining room.

On my question as to why Clarissa would do such a horrible thing my mother told me that my soon to be stepdaughter had been jealous of my real daughter the minute the latter appeared at the manor.

I was quite surprised. I did recall Clarissa hadn't exactly been nice to Daphne, but this wasn't unexpected because Clarissa just wasn't a very nice girl. Yet she arranged, with Glynnis, that Daphne had a more than suitable dress to wear to the coming out of the Orwood twins.

"No, she didn't," my mother said. "The dress Clarissa and Glynnis picked out was hideous. Daphne told me how she changed it herself into the gown she wore at the Orwoods'."

"She's very disappointed in me," I said softly.

"One can hardly blame her," my mother replied. "I tried to talk to her by the way, while you were busy receiving the queen." From her look I gathered she thought my priorities were seriously mixed up. "But I'm afraid I wasn't any more convincing than you were."

I thought of Daphne, alone in her room feeling miserable on the night that had been meant as a celebration.

"At least she confided in you about that hideous dress Clarissa picked out," I said. "And you freed her from the dining room tonight."

'_I really learned a lot, really learned a lot, _

_Love is like a flame, it burns you when it's hot'_

My mother glanced at Ian who was staring at me. "That singer really wears his emotions on the outside. I thought he was Daphne's boyfriend. Now, I'm not so sure anymore."

"I think they have fallen out," I offered.

"Do you, now?" she said, with a musing look on her face that I didn't understand.

When the song finished, Ian announced a break for the band. I was under the impression that the other members looked slightly miffed at their leader.

I contemplated going upstairs to see Daphne, but Alistair came up to me and ordered, "Henry, go persuade Daphne to join the party again. Her absence is catastrophic for the elections."

I instantly decided that I would not go upstairs. This surprised me, because I never knew I had it in me to be stubborn.

The band returned and struck up 'I want you'. Good lord.

I still knew this song by heart. I bought Elvis Costello's record 'Blood and Chocolate 'when it first came out in 1986. Alistair already had his claws in me, but I'd slipped out of the house and secretly bought the LP.

I don't think the appeal of the song had anything to do with Libby. Six months had passed since and eased the pain of her departure. I was fascinated by Costello because he dared to express his heart-wrenching feelings so openly—because he _had _such heart-wrenching feelings. The lyrics of the song had always filled me with a mixture of fear and delight. As had Costello's raspy, terrifying voice.

Ian's imitation of it was, once again, spot on. In lieu of something less trite, I'd say that I felt a shiver running down my spine at the first 'I want you'. The despair and insane desire were almost palpable.

The lyrics didn't entirely fit, there was no 'him' in my life after all, but Ian's voice nonetheless haunted me. And the searing look in his eyes was hard to endure.

I nearly choked when I realised what it all could mean. Dear god. Was I for some unimaginable reason the object of Ian's unrequited affection?

The rest of the party passed in a daze, and I'm afraid I didn't see my guests out properly. When the band started packing up, I went to Ian. As a host and temporarily employer I felt I had to.

"Thank you," I said awkwardly. "You were... you are very good, your band as well." When he didn't respond I continued, "You must be tired. Sweet dreams."

Good grief, what on earth possessed me to say something intimate like that? As though we were friends... or lovers even. "Good night," I corrected and rushed out of the room.

In the hall I found my mother.

"Daphne's gone," she said. "I just checked. Her room is empty."

God, no.

"Listen." My mother put her arms around me, then let go quickly; we both weren't used to displays of affection. "For six centuries, this family has been sacrificing bits of itself for England. Arms, legs, eyes... The battlefields of Europe are littered with them. Don't follow in that glorious tradition." She looked at me pointedly. "Don't sacrifice your heart, Henry."

_Ian_

After the party I helped the others put our gear into the van. They were quiet but I could tell they were miffed. I didn't really care. I was still reeling from the conversation I just had with Henry.

When he came up to me and _thanked_ me for what I'd let him endure—those words, those stares—my anger instantly dissipated. I didn't know what to say to him.

He looked sad and worn out and I yearned to comfort him, yet I was scared shitless at the mere thought of touching him.

"You must be tired," he said softly. "Sweet dreams."

I almost choked on the lump in my throat. Why would he say something so intimate? Like we were friends, or even more than friends.

He seemed to regret what he'd just said, as after a hurried "Good night" he rushed out of the room, leaving me blown away with his kindness.

"... why Ian made us play that old depressing stuff," Tom was saying.

"Choosing to play old songs was a smart thing to do," Alex said in my defence. "Our gigs are mostly paid by older people, so we'd better keep them happy."

"By playing depressing stuff," Tom scoffed.

"Maybe not," Alex admitted. "But most songs were suitable for dancing and I don't think anyone paid close attention to the lyrics."

Except perhaps Henry, I thought.

"Let's just go," Dave muttered. "I'm beat."

The boys got into the van and drove off. Alex and I stayed behind as we had arrived at the manor on our motorbikes.

"It was stupid of you, you know," Alex said. "He's too old for you, too straight, too posh, too _Tory_, for god's sake."

He wasright three out of four.

I'm an old soul. Rob was 29 when he enlightened me about my sexual orientation, and I had given Clive 'Is This it', the debut album from The Strokes, for his 36th birthday; the last birthday we celebrated as a couple. The fact that Henry was past 40 didn't make me blink.

I said goodnight to Alex, rode home and went to bed.

I couldn't sleep and I when I finally did fall asleep Ms Green woke me after only minutes, or so it seemed.

She knocked on my door and called, "Ian? Are you decent? You've got a visitor."

I could hear some dark voiced mumbling.

Henry. Christ.

I put on a pair of boxers and the first t-shirt I found lying on the floor. "Alright, come on in," I said.

Henry entered reluctantly. He was far too tall for my tiny room and the atmosphere instantly became kind of suffocating.

"Hello," he said awkwardly. "Daphne is gone. She left the manor. I've been to Great Britain's Grand Hotel to see if she would be there, but she wasn't. Obviously." He paused, swallowed, then continued with apparent difficulty, "I thought I'd just drop by on my way home. It... it wasn't my intention to wake you."

"She's not here." I sounded amazingly aggressive, but he was just so _close_.

"I know." He was staring at my t-shirt.

It was a pink shirt with the image of Michelangelo's David printed on the front, and it looked extremely queer. My mother once gave it to me 'to wear it proudly.' I liked it, but I must admit it was a little over the top.

"I'm sorry to have disturbed you," Henry said. "Sleep well."

He left without awaiting my reply.

In the afternoon when the telephone rang, Ms Green announced that it was for me.

"Hello, Ian, this is Henry. Dashwood," the caller said. "I just wanted to tell you that Daphne's mother phoned me. Daphne is in New York."

"So she's safe," I replied rather lamely.

"Yes. It's quite a relief."

"I can imagine." Lame again.

"I thought you'd want to know, as the two of you are... were friends."

"Yes," I said. "Thank you for calling."

"You're welcome, and... and I wish you all the best, Ian."

"Thank you," I said again. "Goodbye."

That was it. True closure. There was nothing more to say between us.

The telephone rang again and I picked it up, my heart beating fast.

But it was my mother.

"Hello, sweetheart. I'm just calling to hear if you are alright. Your father and I haven't heard from you for a while and that's unusual."

"I'm fine, mum," I said.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"Well, I'm not. Would you please come to dinner tomorrow?"

It was no use to decline because my mother wouldn't take no for an answer and I didn't really want to turn her down. Tomorrow she would force me to tell her what was bothering me and I truly needed that.

"Yes," I said. "Yes, I'd like that."


	11. The lord's speech

**11. The lord's speech**

_Ian_

My parents were watching the news when I arrived at their house. Henry was giving a speech at the conservatives' congress.

"Recently there have been one or two remarks in the press regarding my behaviour," he was saying. "It's been suggested that I've not been conducting myself in a manner befitting an MP."

I stared at the screen while he continued, "Well, I've been giving my priorities a great deal of thought... and I've decided it's time to get them straight." He paused, then said, "Which is why I must now respectfully withdraw my candidacy."

Noise rose from the audience at that.

"Good lord!" my mother exclaimed.

"Good boy," my father nodded approvingly.

But Henry wasn't done yet.

"Representing you would undoubtedly be the greatest honour of my political life. But it would be simply impossible to do so if I'm not serving my own conscience. See... I've changed. And as important as my political aspirations are to me... there is one thing that matters more."

He didn't elaborate. Could he be meaning me? Probably not. He was probably referring to Daphne. But there was a slight chance...

"What's the matter?" my mother asked. "Why are you so edgy all of a sudden?"

"I'm not," I tried, to no avail.

"Well, I think it's high time I disappear and leave the talking to the thinking part of this family," my father said, adding "I'm going to watch some soccer upstairs" and suiting the action to the word.

"So," my mother said slowly. "What exactly is Henry Dashwood to you?"

I took a deep breath and I spilled everything. My initial dislike of Henry. My acquaintance and subsequent friendship with Daphne. Our date. Our kissing. My realising what it was all about.

I told my mother every detail up to Henry's phone call yesterday to tell me that Daphne had safely returned to New York.

She listened patiently, and when I had finished she said, "I've always been slightly puzzled by the intensity of your disliking lord Dashwood, but I never would have guessed its reason."

And why did I feel disappointed now? I never would have guessed it myself—or at least not this early—if it hadn't been for Daphne wanting to be kissed.

"Does he know how you feel?"

I stared at her in horror but she was unimpressed.

"Come on, honey, you're always wearing your heart on your sleeve. It's not that stupid a question. Do you think he knows?"

I sighed. "I have no idea."

I had given abundant signals at Daphne's party, but Henry hadn't shunned me, then or later. And he surely would have had if he'd interpreted my stares and singing correctly.

Wouldn't he?

I felt my edginess return and my mother of course read my thoughts.

"Are you going to go find out?"

"Yes," I said. "I am. Right after dinner."

My parents wished me luck when I took off on my bike. I rode to the manor fast. The nicer of the two guards I'd met was on duty (he was probably the weekend guard). Percy the butler told me he'd inform his lordship of my presence.

I didn't have time to become more nervous than I already was, because it took Percy only a couple of seconds to return and announce that Lord Dashwood was expecting me.

Henry was standing next to his desk. Nervous. Like me.

"Hello, Ian."

"Hi," I just said.

"What... what brings you here?"

Love. Lust. Need. Graving. Yearning...

"Are you going to visit New York to see Daphne?" I asked.

Did he seem disappointed by my question? "If she'll allow me, yes, I'd love to, sometime," he said slowly. "But right now, I don't know if she'll even want so much as talk to me again."

So Daphne wasn't the one thing that mattered more than his political aspirations.

"I watched your speech on the news," I told him. "What made you decide to give up your candidacy?"

"Something my mother said to me. And Daphne. She taught me life is more worthwhile when one relies on one's heart as a compass." He sat on the corner of his desk. "I've been running for MP because of Alistair's and Glynnis's yearning for power, not my own. My engagement to Glynnis was a farce. I never loved her, and I don't believe for a minute that she ever loved me."

His engagement with Glynnis Payne was off. Jesus Christ.

"What are you going to do next?" I asked, wishing I wouldn't have whispered the question.

He regarded me for a moment. "I don't know. I'll still be the lord of the manor. Glynnis and Clarissa have left, obviously, and the wedding is cancelled. There's still money. Family money and my income as a barrister. I'll abstain from politics, so I'll have a lot of time on my hands." He paused. Then his face lit as though he were struck with a brilliant idea. "I think I'll buy a motorcycle." The light faded and his expression turned doubtful. "Would... would you like to help me pick one out?"

Yes! Yes, I'd like that.

_Henry_

"What did you have in mind?" He took off his jacket and I found myself staring.

"Something like yours." I realised how this must sound and I quickly tried to turn my words into a joke. "Only slightly less orange."

He didn't smile, but he didn't seem hostile either, very much unlike the first time I attempted to joke in his presence.

He came closer. "What models did you own in the past?"

"I've only had one," I said. "A Honda Nighthawk. But I'm not partial to a particular brand. I just want a good, reliably motorbike."

"The Buell Blast comes in yellow and black besides orange." His tone was dry, but I saw the corner of his mouth quiver and I deemed it safe to smile. He smiled back, which made me feel rather... strange.

"Let's have a look."

We sat in front of my computer and Ian took to work. I noticed his skilful navigation on the internet, heard his voice pointing out the pros and cons of several motorcycles and watched his endearingly concentrated profile.

It was nice to sit here with him. I felt comfortable and I allowed myself to enjoy the warm distraction of his proximity. This was enough. There was no need to explore my feelings.

At some point he announced with confidence that the bikes to be considered were narrowed down to Asian models. I regretted it a little to be snapped out of my absorption.

"Tomorrow we're going to visit some dealers," he said. "I'll pick you up at eleven, okay?—Or... or not," he added when I didn't respond immediately.

"Eleven is fine," I said quickly. "I'd like that very much."

He gave me a broad grin. White teeth, golden skin; one couldn't help notice that he was a beautiful boy.

"Good. I... I'd better go now. See you tomorrow. Sweet dreams."

In the dim light of the room I couldn't see if he was actually blushing, but he did look embarrassed. I too was reminded of last Friday when I uttered the same rather intimate wish and felt embarrassed myself.

"Good night," I said as gently as I could to take the edge off the moment.

I watched him put on his jacket and leave. At the door he turned. "Bye," he said.

I was left feeling a strange mixture of ease and restlessness.

I had withdrawn my candidacy for the elections today and a burden was lifted from my shoulders. My speech at the congress, although delivered nervously, had been quite adequate. People stood when I left the room and I believe many were on the verge of applauding. Alistair and Glynnis weren't pleased of course, but I told them I didn't give a flying fart in space what they thought (I was rather angry). For many years I had let them, and to a lesser extent even Clarissa, dictate me how to live my life. Now I was free to make my own choices.

And that's where the restlessness started, because I had no idea where to begin.

Although... tomorrow I would start with the purchase of a motorcycle. Under Ian's inspiring and inspired guidance.

I found myself smiling at the thought, but my restlessness returned as I recalled his choice of songs at Daphne's coming out party, and the way he had looked at me—_stared_ at me—while he sang them. If he was harbouring some sort of attraction for me, how did I feel about it? Did I even need to _have_ an opinion on the matter?

I really didn't know.


	12. Buying a motorbike

**12. Buying a motorbike**

_Henry_

At the breakfast table the next morning my mother told me for about the sixth time in less than 24 hours that she was very proud of me.

"Why did you never tell me how you felt about my candidacy for the elections?" I asked.

She regarded me for a long moment. "You are wont to please others, Henry," she said. "I was afraid that if I would interfere you'd feel torn between Alistair and Glynnis on the one hand and me on the other." She took a sip from her coffee, "I wanted you to do what _you _wanted, not anybody else. I realised of course that it would be difficult for you to figure out what you wanted, especially because you weren't used to think about your own needs."

"Daphne... Daphne was of great help," I said.

"Yes," my mother agreed slowly. "Daphne, and her friend Ian."

I stared at her, puzzled at what she meant.

"You _are _going to see him again, aren't you?" she asked.

"Yes. In fact, he's collecting me later this morning. I've decided to buy a motorbike and he's going to advise me."

"That's wonderful!" she said heartfelt.

She didn't elaborate and I left the breakfast table quite bewildered as to why my mother took such an apparent liking to Ian.

At five to eleven (I was watching the clock) Percy knocked on the door of my study to announce that Mr. Wallace was here to see me.

I instantly took to the hall. Ian was facing me when I got there.

"Hi."

"Hello," I said awkwardly, without understanding why I couldn't sound more pleasant. After all, I _was_ pleased to see him.

"Are you ready to go?"

I was. I had been for the last hour and a half.

Outside at his motorbike he hesitated.

"What's the matter?"

"I would let you ride," he said, "but I've already located a few dealers, so..."

"Riding in pillion is perfectly fine with me," I assured him.

It turned out to be not exactly true. Putting my arms around Ian's waist to prevent myself from falling off his motorcycle was awkward. Regardless of its practicality and in spite of the layers of clothing involved, the gesture was intimate. I worried what he might think of it.

We visited a couple of dealers. Ian did all the talking. And all of the decision making. All I had to do was indicate which one I liked best when a number of bikes were pointed out to me.

I watched Ian's bargaining with the same warm distraction I had felt last night, when he searched the internet. I was impressed by his negotiating skills, I noticed yet again that he had a beautiful profile, I listened to his soothing voice and I saw the impact of his winning smile.

"... nice of you to help your father pick out a motorbike," I heard the salesman at the second dealer we visited saying.

"He's n— yeah. Thanks," Ian replied.

We bought my motorcycle, a black Suzuki Bandit, at the third and last dealer. From a salesman who neither threw me stealthy glances conveying that he was wondering where he had seen me before without finding the answer (like the first one we met), nor thought that Ian and I were biologically related.

That I couldn't pay for my motorbike and take it with me straight away was a disappointment, though.

"I'm sorry, sir," the salesman said. "We only accept bank drafts. And your bike must be checked a last time before it's ready to go. You can give me a call on Wednesday next week."

Outside the dealers' showroom Ian suggested a picnic in Bushy Park to cheer me up. He first went to a supermarket to pick up some cans of soda and pastries while I was allowed the honour of guarding his bike.

At his return he told me, "Get on. You ride."

It was a 15 mile ride and I greatly enjoyed it. I wasn't dependant of anyone else (read: Stanley) for my transport and I was faster and more agile than most road users. I also had an unusual intense sensation of speed. The sound of the engine was loud and a cool wind was blowing against me on this hot August day. But above all, riding in pillion was Ian who over the course of less than three days had become my best friend. My only friend.

When we arrived at the park we took a short stroll, Ian carrying a plastic bag with our provision. After a while he suggested we sit down under a tree and have our picnic.

We ate and drank without saying much. At some point I felt I had to break the not entirely comfortable silence.

"This is nice."

"Yeah." He gave me a small smile. "Yeah, it is."

"I'm glad you want to be my friend."

He didn't respond and I felt a sort of panic wash over me.

"You don't want to be my friend?" I asked. "Is it... is it the age difference?"

"No," he said. "It's not the age difference. At all." He looked at me intensely and I was suddenly reminded of the expression he wore on Daphne's coming out party.

"O."

If I ever thought I didn't need to have an opinion on Ian's attraction for me, I now knew that this was a misconception.

"Yes," he said. "Very much 'O' indeed. Do you want to go home now?"

"No."

I didn't know what I wanted, but that much I knew.

_Ian_

I knew it was stupid while I was doing it. To lure Henry Dashwood into kissing me was the surest way to spoil our budding friendship.

He'd said he wanted us to be friends. If I played my carts right, if I spent time with him, gave him the opportunity to get to know me and realise that he was queer (if he was indeed) he would perhaps fall in love with me too.

I had to be patient. I had _planned_ to be patient. But the moment we sat down on the grass, I knew I couldn't bear to be his friend. He was so close, so incredibly gorgeous, and I had fantasised about it so many times before. I just yearned to kiss him.

I knew that if I did, the chances of Henry being struck by lightning and to fall on his knee and propose to me were very slim, while the scenario of him freaking out and running 15 mile back to central London was more than likely.

And yet I couldn't help myself.

I wasn't so stupid as to force myself upon him. I just looked at him, knowing he could read my desire, and I held back.

It was Henry who bridged the gap, a mere 10 centimetres, and I knew he would do so when I saw his expression turn to utter helplessness nanoseconds before I felt his lips on mine.

They were warm and soft and delicious.

We were kissing. It was great, but it wasn't enough. I pressed my tongue against Henry's lips and he instantly complied, opening his mouth.

Jesus Christ. Dear lord in heaven. He was hot, and slick. And hungry.

It was all I dreamt it would be, but real. He was making noises. He was putting a hand on the back of my neck to keep me where he wanted me. I let him. I enjoyed it. I even enjoyed the awkward wetness of Cowper's fluid in my pants, because that was reality too.

At some point we broke the kiss to come up for air. Henry was looking bewildered. Not disgusted, but not happy either.

I hadn't reckoned with this. While I was kissing him, two possible scenarios had lingered in the back of my mind. When the kiss ended Henry would a) forcefully reject me or b) passionately declare his love to me. I found that the third scenario was even more agonising than the first.

"Henry," I said softly. "Do you w—"

"I hadn't realised," he said in a daze, as though he hadn't heard me.

Of course. I was looking at a man struggling to come to terms with his newfound proclivities and the outcome was uncertain. Maybe he would get stuck in self-loathing; maybe he would accept his homosexuality. But even if the latter turned out to be the case, to enjoy kissing a bloke who happened to be me was something altogether different than to fall in love with me.

"Henry..."

This time he looked at me, his expression so sad that I would have given anything to erase our kiss and go back to where he'd said he was glad I wanted to be his friend.

"Do you want to go home?"

"Yes," he said. "I think I do."

We walked back. I tried not to, but I couldn't help frequently glancing askance. Most of the time Henry seemed distracted, but once in a while I was rewarded with a small, sad smile.

"Would you be able to concentrate enough to ride it?" I asked when we arrived at my bike.

He nodded and I gave him the keys.

From his style I could infer how he was feeling. To the park he had been riding fast, taking his turns quick and cheerful. Now his pace was considerably slower and more cautious.

I was in pillion forcing myself to enjoy having my arms around Henry, as it could very well be the last time.

When we arrived at the manor we got off my bike and Henry took off his helmet. He seemed to want to say something to me, so I took off mine as well.

"There's... there's one thing I don't understand," he said. "Your friendship with Daphne, was that...?" His voice trailed off and he didn't need to finish his sentence.

"When she came to Great Britain's Grand Hotel looking for a place to sleep the television was on and you were announcing your candidacy for the elections," I told him. "'That's my dad,' she said and I grabbed my chance. As her friend I would have the opportunity to be near you."

I didn't inform him about my initial motive to befriend Daphne—wanting to see her father fail because I thought I hated him—as that was completely irrelevant now.

"So you never were in love with her," Henry said.

"No. The fact that I used her doesn't reflect well on me, but I can't make it look any better. I'm sorry. And I'm sorry that I've made you feel uncomfortable about..." Now _I_ trailed off feeling I didn't need to finish my sentence.

"There's no need for you to apologise," he said. "It was as much my doing as..." He stopped, looking away awkwardly. Then he gave me that familiar sad smile. "Thank you for your help in the purchase of my motorcycle."

"You're welcome."

"I... I'll call you."

Sure he would. But I told myself not to count on it.

When I rode off I thought it was almost funny: the stark contrast between my happiness this morning at the prospect of spending part of my day in Henry's company, and my foal mood right now. The day I helped Henry to buy a motorbike had turned out one of the most depressing days of my life.


	13. To kiss and never stop

**13. To kiss and never stop**

_Ian_

I rode straight to my mother and told her everything. She listened patiently and then put her arms around me.

I let her comfort me.

After a while she said, "I really don't know what motherly advice would be the most helpful: to tell you to take your time to get over him, or to keep your hopes up." When I looked at her non-understanding she added, "If he kissed you the way you said, he might not be done with you."

Perhaps. But I'd already experienced once before, imagining numerous different scenarios of Clive and me getting back together again, that hope could hurt more than resignation.

"Thanks, mum, I'll take your first suggestion," I said wryly.

I stayed for dinner. Afterwards I went home and listened to my entire collection of heartbreak songs, which was elaborated. My breakup with Clive was coming in handy now.

The next day I visited Alex. We had a vague agreement to meet some time and develop ideas on how to further promote our band. I thought now was as good a time as any.

It was an excuse of course to not think about Henry, and I wasn't very helpful to Alex.

"Pining about lord Dashwood?" he asked at some point.

I nodded.

"I'm sorry, mate. I don't know what to say to you. Except, ride it out."

I thanked him and left. When I got home, Ms Green told me that lord Dashwood had called.

O, Jesus.

"Did he... leave a message?"

"No. But he seemed very disappointed that you weren't there. I think you should call him back."

I begged to differ. Ms Green was a nosey parker and if Henry did call me, what was I still doing here talking to her?

I got on my bike again, exceeded all speed limits but arrived at the manor in one piece.

The uptight guard was standing at the gate. I told him I had an appointment with lord Dashwood.

"I'll just check," he said, with a rather mean grin. He phoned the manor and told me, greatly put off, "You may come through."

The front door opened even before I had parked my bike on the drive. Henry was standing in the doorway. He looked terrible. And terribly beautiful.

I hurried towards him, not giving a damn about the impression I was making, but I stopped on the doorstep as I realised I could hardly throw my arms around his neck right there.

"You called," I said instead.

"Yes. But you weren't there."

"I'm here now."

"Yes," he said, pleased I hoped. "We have to talk."

I followed him to his study. He let me enter first and closed the door.

"I've been thinking," he said. "And it would be a ludicrously immature overstatement to say that I can't live without you. But the fact is... I've realised that I don't _want_ to live without you."

He paused, a little confused I thought. I took it as a sign not to take his last sentence as a ludicrously immature overstatement either.

"What I mean is... I want you in my life. I never felt like this before." He looked at me, apparently feeling the need to explain. "My relationship with Glynnis was actually a business arrangement and Libby... Libby was good to me. I really liked her. I even brought her to England to meet my family and get married, but she left in a hurry. Alistair handed me a letter in which she explained there was another man in her life."

He paused and I caught his eye just to tell him that I was listening and would continue to do so until he was finished saying what he felt needed to be said.

"I now know that there wasn't another man, but it doesn't matter anymore. If it ever did. I was hurt when she left, but not for long. After Libby there wasn't anybody else until Glynnis's husband died. I didn't think anything of it. I was just too busy. Too much Alistair's puppet."

He sighed. Then he looked at me, a little embarrassed. I had the distinct feeling confession time had arrived.

"I think I'm in love with you. I haven't slept. I literally haven't eaten all day. When we... kissed yesterday, I almost fainted." He smiled quickly. "Although that could have been the oxygen deprivation as well." He got serious again. "It seems that one cannot be in love for eternity. That, to me, right now is impossible to imagine."

He held my gaze and I let the full meaning of his words sink in.

"The state of being in love always seems to end at some point, to just disappear or to be replaced by something quieter and more durable if one is lucky. I don't know what will happen. All I want to do right now is to kiss you and never stop."

It was an incredible monologue, in length and content. Many of his words had the effect of dirty talk on me. But why on earth was he just standing there?

"Henry," I said. "Please. Will you just stop talking and _do_ something already?"

_Henry _

I had thought it sensible to thoroughly explain myself to Ian. But I also had been nervous and afraid of doing what I had longed for—yearned for—for the past 24 hours.

Now, on his cue, I rushed towards him. Or I must have done so, because I suddenly found myself very close in front of him. I kissed him. I wasn't subtle. I immediately demanded entrance.

It was exactly like yesterday, only better, because I wasn't shocked anymore at the dizziness, the liquidness, the _rigidness_ that was happening to me.

I put my hands around his waist, my fingers brushing against the warm skin of his back under his jacket and shirt. It felt electric. He moaned. I placed my palm on his spine and pressed him against me, making him gasp.

"Do you have a bed... bedroom?" he hissed.

"Upstairs," I murmured.

We didn't encounter anyone when we climbed the stairs, which was a relief. I did feel a little embarrassed when I opened the door however, because my room was about ten times as large as his.

"Jesus," he said, entering.

I closed the door. The sound of the key turning in the lock seemed ridiculously loud to me.

"It's a very big room."

"It's the largest bedroom of the house," I replied in a failed attempt to soften things.

"It's insane," Ian judged. He looked at me. "But I'm not going to let it spoil my fun."

He kissed me. Sweetly. I tried to deepen the kiss, but he turned me around and walked me backwards to my four poster bed. With unexpected force, as he was smaller than me.

I felt the bedstead against my calves and I sat down. He smiled at me, kicked off his shoes and then squatted to take off mine.

He looked up, stood, and I watched his every move.

When he stepped forward to stroke my head I couldn't help wrapping my arms around his waist and pressing my cheek against his belly.

"It's okay," he whispered. "I'm here."

He ordered me to lie down and I complied. He undid the buttons of my shirt, the buckle of my belt, my zipper. I hissed at the touch of his fingers against my erection through my underwear.

He lay down close beside me, resting his head against my shoulder. He kissed me. Thoroughly this time. I felt his fingers wander down and slip under my waistband.

I took his hand away immediately. "No."

"What?"

"It's not... it's not that I don't want this," I said. "I want it more than anything. But I've never... not like this, and I'm terribly aroused. It will be over far too soon." I turned to face him. "I want to touch you. Teach me how."

It took a moment before his expression of disappointment dissolved.

"Alright," he said. "Strip."

I undressed, willing myself to concentrate and not be distracted by the sight of Ian taking off his clothes.

When I had finished undressing and looked up, it was a shock to see him completely naked. He was incredibly, impeccably beautiful. And so very young. I was unpleasantly aware of my own appearance.

"Come," he said invitingly, getting onto the bed.

I lay down closely beside him, facing him. It was unfamiliar, intimate, arousing, liquid, sweet, to be here with him, to be near him, naked, to touch him full length.

Our lips, our tongues met. I wanted the kiss to never end; I wanted to drown in it.

I gasped when Ian placed a hand on my hip and pressed himself against me. The feeling of my penis aligned with his was incredible. He thrusted once—dear god—then he pushed at my shoulder.

"Roll over."

I complied. He got on top of me. I stroked his face before assaulting his mouth again. He reached his hand down to align our penises. He bucked his hips. I whimpered. Sweat and pre-ejaculate were providing a most delightful combination of lubrication and friction.

I moved with him. His breathing quickened. I felt him tense in my arms moments before warm spurts wetted my belly. And I came.

I held him for a long while; we didn't speak. But at some point our combined semen cooled and became uncomfortable. Ian stirred.

"Would you like to take a shower with me?" I asked.

"Yeah," he smiled.

In the bathroom I lathered him with soap. It was an excuse of course to touch him.

I lathered his shoulders, his back, his buttocks and a little cautiously his perineum. He hummed at the touch and I proceeded to soap his scrotum, shaft and, very carefully, the sensitive head of his penis.

He put his arms around my neck and I held him close. We kissed. Slowly. Lazily. I didn't recall ever having felt so happy. It almost hurt.

He looked up, tracing his fingers over my chest. "I like it that you are so bare."

I stroked my thumb over the curls surrounding his nipples. "I like it that you're not."

We stood under the stream to rinse off the soap. Towels were within reach. Dressing again would only take minutes. We were nearly done.

"When will I see you again?"

He laughed. "I haven't even left yet."

"I know. But I'm dreading the moment you do."

"I'll come and pick you up tomorrow," he offered. "We can take the bike somewhere."

"I'd like that," I said.

We towelled and dressed far too quickly to my taste.

"Would you... like a drink?" I asked.

He came towards me, took my head between his hands, kissed me softly and said, "Yeah. Yeah, I'd like that."


	14. Kitchen gossip

**14. Kitchen gossip**

_Henry_

We went downstairs to my study. When I let him enter, I was struck with the memory of the first time Ian had been in my room, when we had discussed the details of his band performing on Daphne's coming out party. I recalled how awkward and perplexing his hostility had been and I realised he had provoked such strong emotions because, even then, I had longed for him to be my friend.

And now he was. My friend. Mine.

I touched his shoulder to confirm reality.

"I'm going to get some beverages," I said.

Ian looked at me, puzzled. "Don't you have a bar or a fridge in your room?"

I didn't. Alistair hadn't permitted it. 'A study is for working, Henry, not drinking.'

We had had tea and other beverages in my room occasionally however, and I suspected the main reason for Alistair's forbiddance was his relish to use the bell and have the servants on his beck and call.

"No, I don't have a bar, but I will redeem this as soon as I can," I said. "Now, I'm going to the kitchen to get you a drink."

I didn't want to use the bell right now, not in the presence of Ian, as I feared he would find it an act of condescension. And if he found it odd that I didn't ring, then I hoped it added to my mystery.

I didn't expect to be able to fetch the drinks unseen—it was a quarter past five, preparations for dinner surely would have commenced—yet I startled when I was greeted by a kitchen full of staff.

"I just wanted to get some beverages for myself and... and a friend," I said awkwardly.

"You should have rung, sir," one of the staff members replied accusingly.

I was violating the rule not to trespass their territory, obviously. They, on the other hand, were holding their end of the bargain, not calling me 'milord'. I had insisted they don't, partly out of respect for my father who died at 55 having been 'milord' for more than 30 years, but mainly because I hated the feudal ring there was to it.

"I'd like a tonic with lemon, please," I said, "and...and..." I had no idea what Ian would prefer.

"There's still some of Miss Daphne's favourite left," Theresa offered.

It stung a little to hear my daughter's name mentioned like that. I couldn't help taking it as a reproach. Her leaving was my fault after all.

It was a fitting choice, though. From the provision he had bought for your picnic yesterday I knew that Ian liked Coca Cola, and I guessed that he might have a sweet tooth as such.

"Yes," I said. "Thank you. That is a fine suggestion."

The drinks were poured and I wanted to take them, but Theresa shook her head. "I'll make some sandwiches and scones and Penny will bring them to... your study, sir?"

I nodded again and left, feeling slightly defeated.

When I entered the study, Ian greeted me with a warm smile. "Finally. There you are. What took you so long?"

"The servants," I confessed. "They wouldn't allow me to take the drinks myself. They're bringing it. With some sandwiches and scones."

"Great," he said. "I'm famished."

I longed to kiss his hungry mouth, but I feared we might be disturbed.

Fortunately, we didn't have to wait very long for a knock on the door and for Penny to bring sodas and food. From her scrutiny of Ian and me I guessed that there would be a fair amount of kitchen gossip over the remainder of the dinner preparations.

_Ian_

I ate and drank deliberately slowly, relishing what my chewing and swallowing did to Henry. He was staring, the look in his eyes leaving no doubt as to what he was feeling. When I licked the jam from my fingers with long, lazy swipes, he positively whimpered and I couldn't help grinning.

"Ian..." he muttered.

"Yes, dear?" I replied innocently.

"You mustn't... I can't..."

"You can't?" I said, ostensibly incredulous.

That did him in. He took one big step, put his arms around me and started to lick the jam from my lips. Then he probed my mouth as though he was searching for the scone he had just realised he wanted himself.

When the tension was released and when we needed air I thought it was time for a talk.

From the servant's glances at Henry and me when she brought in sodas and scones I guessed we would be the talk of the town in the kitchen right now. I didn't need my sexuality to be a secret to anybody, but I would like for Henry to arrange his own coming out, not to be outed by his staff.

"If this is not a fling," I started.

He looked at me urgently. "It isn't. You know it isn't. Not to me."

"Not to me either," I said putting a hand on his cheek to reassure him because he was starting to look doubtful. "I think you should tell your staff about us. They may already suspect it, but it is better to out yourself than to be outed by others."

When Henry nodded, I continued, "And I think you ought to start with that nasty bloke who guards the gate on weekdays."

"Harold does tend to make an offensive impression," Henry said. "He may be a little too protective of me."

"You mean he's _jealous_?"

"Of anyone who comes in my vicinity. I'm afraid so, yes," he said.

Well, well. Harold the homo. I really shouldn't gloat the way I was gloating right now.

"Anyway, Percy is entitled to know as well," I said. "And... and your driver."

"And my mother," Henry added slowly.

"Yes, but she probably knows already. I know mine did. I wasn't breaking any news when I came out."

He looked at me intrigued, and I told him that when I discovered, at seventeen, that I was queer I instantly told my mother.

"She said she suspected something like that already and how did I feel about it? And I said, 'He dumped me and I hate him for it, but I'm not loathing myself if that's what you mean. I'm perfectly fine with who I am.' She said, 'I'm glad. And I'm proud.'"

"And your father?"

"He came in right that moment. I said, 'Hey, dad, I'm queer.' He said, 'Your mother suspected something like that already.' And that was all there was to it."

Henry didn't seem convinced that he would be so lucky.

"You'll be fine," I said. "Trust me." I gave him a lazy kiss. "I must go now. A commoner like me is forced to do his own cooking."

It was meant as a joke, but he didn't smile.

"I'll see you tomorrow," he said softly, seriously.

"You will." I smiled. "I'll let myself out; otherwise I'm afraid I will glue myself to you at the front door for everybody to see."

Om my way home I bought a salad and a large bag of crisps to serve as my supper so I wouldn't need to use Ms Green's kitchen. I reckoned if she didn't see me she couldn't read my face, and I wouldn't inadvertently out Henry by allowing her to guess the cause of the butterflies that were so obviously flying in my stomach.


	15. Telling Daphne

**15. Telling Daphne**

_Henry_

Ian was right. At dinner, when I was making a nervous and extremely clumsy attempt to inform my mother about my relationship with Ian, her face started to glow and she said, "This is wonderful news. You've fallen in love. It's mutual. You're in a relationship. I'm so happy for you. And elated that you've finally started to pursue your own happiness instead of others'."

"Aren't you surprised or put off by the fact that I turn out to be a homosexual?"

"Darling," my mother said cryptically, "I'm too old for that kind of nonsense." Then, as an apparent non sequitur she asked, "Have you spoken to Daphne lately?"

I told her I hadn't and the look on her face made it clear she thought I should, and what to say exactly. Her question hadn't been a non sequitur at all.

I wasn't looking forward to calling Daphne. I dreaded her reaction, but I knew my mother was right: there was no postponing the inevitable.

My palms were sweaty and my heart was beating in my throat when I dialled New York. I felt a slight but distinct sense of relief when Libby answered the phone.

"Hello, Libby," I managed. "How... how is she?"

"Reasonably well, considering the circumstances," she replied.

"I'm so terribly sorry about it all." I volunteered that I had withdrawn my candidacy for the elections.

"That's great, Henry. That is..." She hesitated. "It is great, isn't it?"

"It's wonderful. Could I... could I talk to Daphne please?"

After a few seconds I heard my daughter's voice. "Hello, Henry." She sounded listless.

"Hello, Daphne. How are you?"

"I'm alright."

"I'm glad." I felt as though I was walking on eggshells. "I withdrew my candidacy for the elections."

That stirred something.

"You did? Why?"

"Because I found... You taught me that following one's heart is more important than obliging the wishes of others. And I apologise profusely for what I've put you through while not realising that."

Magic words, apparently. She sounded mollified when she said, "That's okay. So, are you happy now?"

I told her I was.

"And Glynnis?"

"I have no idea," I confessed. "The wedding was cancelled."

After she expressed her glee, she asked, "So, what are you doing now that you're not obeying Alistair and Glynnis anymore?"

The eggshells were back at once, and they appeared to have multiplied.

"Well, I... well... uh..." I couldn't tell her about Ian just like that. "What have you been doing since you're back in New York?" I diverted. "Uh, what I mean to say is, are you very mad at me?"

"Not now I know that you're no longer one of them," she said. "I mean..."

"I know what you mean," I assured her. Then I asked, "Do you miss England?"

"I miss you. And grandmother. And Percy. And Stanley in a way."

This was my chance to get to the point without hopefully making a complete ass of myself.

"And... and Ian?"

"Yeah," she sighed. "He was so nice. If he would have been an American boy I would have thought he was gay."

I nearly choked but I managed to ask her whether she was terribly heartbroken over Ian.

"No," she said a little hesitantly. "No, not really. A little sad maybe that we can't be friends anymore, but I'm not stricken with grief or something like that."

"How would you feel about there being somebody else in his life?" I would have liked to have sounded less muted.

"How would you know there is?"

"Daphne. I don't know how to tell you this. I am in many ways not the father you dreamt about." I took a deep breath and I took the plunge. "I'm the one in Ian's life. He is a homosexual. And as it turns out, so am I."

There was an agonisingly long silence. Then she asked, "Is this a joke?"

I told her it wasn't.

"What about Libby?"

"Well..." I said. "There only have been two women in my life. Sex with Glynnis was a chore. And with Libby... I was inexperienced. It was terrifying and she was kind and patient and I managed to perform."

"You got her pregnant with me."

"Yes," I said. "When she left, I didn't think anything of it that there wasn't a woman in my life for 17 years."

"Or a man," Daphne stated.

"No," I admitted. "I guess I'm what you'd call a late bloomer."

"And a thief," she exclaimed. "You stole my boyfriend!"

"He wasn't your—" I started, but she interrupted me.

"No. But I could easily have fallen in love with him. What happened? The two of you just collided?"

I explained that Ian came to see me after I'd withdrawn my candidacy. That he offered to assist me in the purchase of a motorcycle. That we went to Bushy Park for a picnic after we had bought one, and that he kissed me.

"Just like that?" she asked.

"Well... he has had at least one previous relationship with a man," I confessed, "so he probably wasn't as surprised at what happened as I was."

She didn't like to hear this. "If he's been in a gay relationship before then what about his friendship with me?"

"Actually..." I mumbled, eggshells cracking, "he thought that as your friend he would have access to me."

"So it was never about me?" she burst out. "He knew all along? And he _used_ me? What a jerk!"

I didn't know what to say. From her perspective, she was completely right of course.

_Ian_

I went to the manor way too early the next morning. I woke up at seven, finished breakfast at eight, and managed (barely) to keep myself from jumping on my bike until a quarter past nine. Then I couldn't take it anymore. I had to see him (feel, smell, hear, taste him). Henry surely wouldn't mind if I arrived before ten o'clock, even if we had agreed I'd pick him up at eleven to take the bike for a ride.

I was very much aware of the box of condoms pressing against my right buttock and the bottle of lubricant against my left pec. Taking the bike somewhere was a nice idea of course, but Henry's four poster bed provided even nicer possibilities.

When I turned around the corner and spotted the gate guarded by Harold, I wondered whether Henry had told people about me—about us.

Apparently he had.

As I started to say, "Good morning, Harold, I'm here to see l—" I was interrupted with a seemingly well rehearsed, "Always welcome, Mr Wallace," the tone and accompanying glare anything but inviting.

Poor, poor Harold, I thought. Not.

While I was locking my bike I heard the front door open. I prayed Henry would be standing in the doorway and when I looked up, my prayer was answered.

Jesus Christ. I knew I'd missed him, yearned for him, but not like this. I never would have thought that after a mere sixteen hours I would be on the verge of tears at the sight of him.

I rushed up the stairs and into his embrace. His very tight embrace. The bottle of lubricant pressed painfully against my chest, but Henry didn't seem to notice it.

"I've missed you," he said, his lips brushing my temple. "Come."

He took me to his study, closed the door, leaned against it for support and took me in his arms again. This time he met with the bottle and slid off my jacket with an exasperated grunt.

To my foggy brain it was clear that he was going to kiss me and never stop.

He did, and he was good at it. Considering his lack of practice he was unbelievably good at it. Truly incredible. He was turning me into a puddle of liquid at his feet.

His hands roamed my back under my shirt. They squeezed my bum, surely noticing the box of condoms in my pocket. But instead of taking it out they wandered to my belly, my chest and my nipples.

All the while Henry's tongue was stroking my teeth and palate, and basically fucking my mouth.

'Fuck _me_!' I wanted to scream, but of course, I couldn't.

At some point we had to come up for air. Henry looked dazed. Then he smiled. Then he said, so matter-of-factly that it was almost off putting, "You were right about my mother. She doesn't mind. She's happy for me. For us."

I quickly dismissed my disappointment at the interruption of our petting. We needed to talk about this. Henry needed to talk about this.

"You've told Harold," I said, to show that I accepted the change of subject.

"He seemed... not so much disgusted as distressed." Henry sounded puzzled.

"He hates my guts."

"Why on earth would he hate you?"

I tried a pointed look but it went nowhere, so I said, "You've told me yourself that Harold is overprotective and that he's jealous of anyone who comes near you. Hasn't it occurred to you that the reason of this might be that he wants you for himself?"

Henry stared at me. "No. No, it hasn't." He looked over my shoulder and apparently out of the window to the gate Harold was busy guarding.

"He can't have you, of course," I said urgently. Pitifully.

Henry looked at me again, knowingly. He kissed me softly and said, "Of course he can't."

For the first time since yesterday, when he told me he thought he was in love with me, I felt I didn't have the upper hand. I had felt powerful because Henry was new at this and I wasn't. Now I was feeling small under his stare, and transparent, and naked—not in a good way but not in an entirely bad way either. Henry had twenty years of life experience on me and I was very much aware of them now.

"I've spoken to Daphne. She was quite upset."

"Because you happen to be queer?" I had no right to sound indignant, but I couldn't help myself. Somebody criticised my hero, I wanted to lash out.

"Because she felt used."

And rightfully so, but that wasn't Henry's fault.

"She has every reason to be angry with me," I said, "but you're not to blame."

"But I am. I forced her into a life I didn't even want myself."

He did. And not even a week ago I hated him for it.

"What did she say?"

"She was very pleased to hear that I gave up my candidacy for the elections. But she was mad at me too for stealing her boyfriend."

"I never was—"

"No. But she could easily have fallen in love with you, as she put it."

"She hadn't yet?"

She told me she wasn't heartbroken over you. But she did call you a jerk for using her."

Which I was, obviously.

"And now?" I asked.

Henry's face lit with a proud smile. "I have an amazing daughter. She doesn't seem to know spite. She asked me if I were happy. When I asked her if I could phone again she said she'd like that. When I thanked her for everything she'd done she called me insane and told me to give you her regards. So now," he smiled again, "I am a very fortunate man." He kissed me. "Truly very fortunate."

I kissed him back, rather aggressively. It was all fine and dandy that Daphne had given us her blessing—really it was, because if she hadn't Henry would have been endlessly brooding over it, I knew him well enough to know that, and I would have felt guilty—but now he needed to redirect his attention and focus on _me_. I hadn't brought those condoms and lubricant for nothing.

It didn't take long before I had him moaning, his hands clutching my head to hold it at the right angle and his tongue mouth-fucking me again. His erection pressed against mine and I felt victorious. I hadn't brought those condoms and lubricant for nothing.

END


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